


The Proving Ground

by Whisky (whiskyrunner)



Series: No Holds Barred [2]
Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2017-12-09 10:27:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 45,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskyrunner/pseuds/Whisky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to No Holds Barred. Gotham may be saved, but Bane's got a long way to go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There's another way into Batman's cave. It took John a couple weeks to find it. An old well shaft, dank and dim, but wide enough to accommodate the ladder he erects. It's a little easier than rappelling into the cave every time he needs to visit.

And he visits a lot.

“I brought someone to see you,” he calls out today, straightening up when he leaves the narrow shaft. His voice bounces back at him. Above, he hears the creak and rustle of disgruntled sleeping bats. “You awake?”

There's a little cove toward the back, near the lift that goes up into Wayne Manor, where Bane is currently lying belly-down on a cot Bruce must have installed. He doesn't budge at John's arrival. When he's close enough, John pulls Harvey out of his coat and sets her on the floor. She pads away, sniffing and squinting her one eye. When Bane suddenly drags in a harsh, forced breath, she jumps and runs away, the fur down her spine bristling.

“I took her to the vet last week,” John says, pulling up a chair and slinging his backpack to the ground. “She's rabies-proof now, so hopefully she doesn't get anything weird from the bats. She only gained two ounces in three weeks, the vet thinks she'll stay around five pounds, which is pretty small, for a cat ...”

Bane pulls in another breath, and rolls over to look at John.

“And you?” he says. Every word seems to cost him. “Are you well?”

The broken mask warps his voice more than ever. It's even more mechanic, no longer human, almost robotic. Harvey, creeping up under John's chair, pulls back and hisses. He's never heard her hiss before. He nudges her back with his foot, embarrassed.

“You mean since I saw you twelve hours ago?” he says, smiling. Bane's gaze is hard and intense and entirely serious. John clears his throat. “Um, yeah. I'm good.” He pauses. “Are you?”

Bane's eyes crinkle into a smile. His face is tight with pain.

“Yes,” he says, maybe serious, maybe mocking. “I am well.”

Getting him here was one of the most difficult things John's ever done. The sewers were being flooded with people to clear out debris, homeless people, and terrorists in hiding. There was no way for Bane to stay down there without being detected, so John had had to help him leave. Around every corner he thought he could hear the clatter of approaching boots. The anxiety of being discovered probably knocked about two years off his life.

He feels bad for using Bruce Wayne's hiding spot, but if there's one place in Gotham where Bane can recover without being seen, it's here. Getting him into the cave was the hard part. Bane has been beaten and his analgesic-delivering mask is broken. Bones are cracked, muscles are torn. John hadn't found the well entrance yet and he still doesn't know how to get in from Wayne Manor. He'd helped drag Bane to the base of the waterfall and then froze, unable to believe he hadn't thought of how to get Bane up the rock face. It had taken them hours and hours to leave the sewers; it was almost dawn.

He was on the verge of panic when Bane suddenly roused himself from a glassy-eyed state and regarded John scornfully, then began to climb the rock himself. Without any rope or equipment. He made the no-doubt excruciating climb as quickly as he was able, sucking in loud, grating breaths; and once inside the cave, he dropped onto the floor, exhausted, and slept for two days.

There are still some days when John isn't quite able to believe he's a man.

Harvey spots a creeping insect and starts stalking it. John's pretty sure she's the bastard kitten of a feral cat and a house-pet, because there's a deep core of affection inside her despite what she's been through, but she's also wild enough to hunt. She's already killed two mice in John's apartment, which, he informed her, officially upgrades her from deadbeat status.

Her depth perception isn't the greatest, though, her being one-eyed. She misses the insect and hits the wall head-first.

“I take it,” Bane says slowly and dryly, watching her like John is, “this is my surprise guest.”

“Yeah,” John says, smiling. “Didn't you miss her?”

Bane scoffs quietly and puts his head back down on the pillow. In another moment, he's asleep.

John watches him for a bit, then opens up his backpack and starts pulling out supplies.

Bane sleeps a lot these days. Rest is the best nurse, John had to tell him at first. Bane wanted to be on his feet, working, stretching, exercising, fighting his body back into the shape he wants it to be. It's been a long time since Bane was incapacitated, and he's like a wild horse that thrashes because it doesn't know it's not supposed to stand on a broken leg. John didn't even have to argue him into compliance. Every day more toxin leaves Bane's body, and every day he is more of a man than the beast he used to be.

He tires. He sleeps. He dreams. He dreams about the pit—he thinks he's there when he sleeps, because of the cave—and he panics and lashes out. John finds him trying to claw the mask off his face, groaning at the unfamiliar way his body hurts.

And he calls for Talia. It's the only time he makes mention of her. To his confused mind, it must seem she is punishing him for his failure by refusing to come. So John sits with him instead, tries awkwardly to soothe him until he settles or lapses out of his daze and looks at John bemusedly.

It's been six weeks now. The nightmares seem to be getting worse.

The pain...

John kneels on the cot and peels away Bane's shirt to take a look at the skin underneath. The worst of it, at least on the outside, is burns and shrapnel wounds from the explosives off the Bat-bike (he still hasn't learned its official designation). These he tends obsessively, and his reward is healing scar tissue without any signs of infection. Before the city got back on its feet, John was quick to hoard any remaining antibiotics and medical supplies, worried foremost about these wounds, the most obvious and ugly.

But these wounds aren't the problem anymore. They're healing, and Bane isn't getting better. He's getting worse.

His breathing is laboured even in sleep. His scalp under the straps of the mask glistens with a sheen of sweat, and when John touches his face he finds it feverish to the touch. Bane's being slowly paralyzed by the pain, sinking into deeper and deeper stupours when he rests.

There is nothing John can do. Bane is dying.

 

*  
John is at home, watching the news on TV, when his phone rings.

He mutes the TV. The reporters seem to find some savage delight in telling the world, every day, that Bane is still at large. Sure, he held up an entire city with a nuclear weapon, but he makes for great news. They've reached the point in the segment where they bounce a few theories off each other—Bane's dead, he's in the sewers, he's in Europe, he's running for governor for the state of Hawaii—and John figures he's not missing much.

It's Gordon.

“Hey,” the older cop says. He sounds tired, and John almost feels like a jerk, for a second, leaving him to clean up the city on his own.

“Hi,” John says. “You okay?”

“Never better,” Gordon says, like the cynic he is. John smiles, but it's quickly wiped off his face when Gordon continues. “Look, I need to ask you to do something. It may be difficult for you.”

“Sure,” John says.

On Gordon's end, he can hear a snappish voice in the background. Gordon's reply to the snapper is muffled. Then he's back.

“Sorry,” he says. “Can you come down to the station?”

“Sure. What for?”

“You'd be doing me a favour,” Gordon says. John sighs.

“I'll be there in twenty minutes.”

He makes it there in fifteen. The first cop he talks to greets him warmly—they all do whenever he's here, slapping his back and smiling at him, John the hero who saved the cops—and takes him to an interrogation room, where Gordon is already sitting at the table. Two men in suits stand off to one side.

“Am I under arrest?” John asks when the door closes behind him. He's smiling, but even as he says it he considers with a twinge that he very well could be.

Gordon glances up from the papers he's looking at. “Of course not. Come on in, Blake.”

John joins them at the table. After a pause, he takes a seat. It makes him feel like he's in trouble for something.

“Agent Hudson,” Gordon says by way of introduction, waving a hand at the nearer of the two men. “And Agent Choi.”

“From what agency?” John asks.

The two men exchange a glance.

“CIA,” Hudson answers.

“We have some questions for you,” Choi adds.

John turns to Gordon. “You said I wasn't under arrest.”

Again, lighthearted, but what is the punishment for harbouring an internationally-wanted terrorist, anyway?

“You're not in trouble for anything, Detective,” Hudson says, and attempts a smile. It makes him look like he ate something that isn't agreeing with him. Gordon sighs, and takes over.

“It's about the time you spent with Bane during the occupation,” he says. “We're having some trouble pinning down which men he considered intimates, men who would know his plans. Or where to find him.”

“Oh,” says John.

“Here.” Hudson shuffles through the papers and sets them out on the table in front of John. They're pictures, rows of mugshots of sullen-looking mercenaries. “See if you recognize any men in there who Bane might have spent more time with than the others.”

“What makes you think they'll know where he is now?”

“It's our best lead,” Choi says, scowling. “Look at the pictures.”

John shuts up and does. Most faces he doesn't know. There are four men Bane did talk to a lot, and he's pretty sure he could pick them out of this pile if they're in here, but he doubts they'd be any help to Hudson and Choi. First of all, no one knows where Bane is except for John (and Harvey). And second, most of Bane's men would sooner die than compromise their leader. Bane inspires a whole lot of loyalty in his men.

He shakes his head. “I don't recognize anyone in here.”

Hudson puts another photo on the table in front of him and points. “What about this men?”

There's a tiny pang in John's chest: it's a slightly grainy picture of Bane, with Barsad tailing close behind him.

John's been trying not to think about Barsad. All he knows of Barsad's fate is that he was shot, and John didn't see him being rounded up with the other terrorists. Common sense fills in the blanks.

Barsad. A part of John actually misses the guy.

“Is he a bodyguard?” Choi demands, when John doesn't answer right away. “Would he have overheard anything Bane was planning?”

“Does Bane look like a guy who needs a bodyguard?” John snaps, needled by the man's brusqueness. He's trying to have a moment, here. He takes a deep breath. “That's Bane's right-hand guy. Barsad. He doesn't matter. You'd never catch him, and even if you could, he's dead.”

Gordon, slumped in the opposite chair and rubbing at his temple, raises his head. Choi immediately pulls out a phone and starts punching stuff in.

“Barsad?” Hudson says, looking at the picture with renewed interest. “That's his name?”

“Yeah—why?”

“He's alive,” Choi says bluntly, not looking up for his phone, “and he's in custody.”

John's stomach drops right through the floor, down to the parking garage below.

“Oh,” he says. Hudson starts sweeping up all the photos into a manila folder while Choi speaks into his phone, headed for the door. Alarmed, John half rises from his chair. “What are you gonna do—torture him?”

“No, no,” Hudson says, forcing a smile. Choi rolls his eyes and leaves the room. “The US government doesn't—we have a guy who'll talk to him.”

“I want to talk to him.”

“Thank you, detective, but we're taking over from here. Commissioner,” Hudson says, nodding respectfully to Gordon. Then he leaves, too.

John kicks the table leg. Gordon blinks.

“What's the matter?”

“I thought he was dead all this time,” John says, furious at himself. “Shit, I haven't even looked for him.”

“Why would you?”

“It's— I have to go,” John says, thinking that he needs to get to the cave so he can tell Bane about this news at once. “Sorry. Uh—I'm glad I helped.”

Gordon stops him at the door, a gentle hand on his arm.

“Don't be a stranger, Blake,” he says, looking suddenly old and tired. And old. “I know the occupation was rougher on you than on most people, but ... don't isolate yourself, okay?”

“I won't,” John says. Gordon gives him a quick smile like he almost believes it, a bracing pat, and lets him go.

 

*  
Harvey greets John first thing when he returns to the cave, scampering out of the dark and arching herself again his legs. He'd left her overnight because she seemed to enjoy hunting the cave fauna so much, and he kind of hates leaving Bane all alone. He smiles and stoops down to rub her tattered ears. He's starting to see the appeal of the whole cat thing.

“Hi. Where's Bane, huh? Sleeping again?”

She gives one of her creaky little meows and strolls away. When John heads deeper into the cave, he finds Bane standing knee-deep in the pool, boots on the rock nearby and cargo pants rolled up, going through a series of stretches and breathing exercises. It hurts, if his expression is anything to go by.

“Hey, hey!” John is splashing through the water before he can think about it, wading messily to Bane's side. “What, uh, what are you doing?”

“Stretching,” Bane grunts. He relaxes his spine and lowers his arms. “I need to condition my body.”

“For what?”

“Healing.” Bane looks down at his hand, and John sees that he's trying to make a fist. His fingers curl stiffly, not reaching his palm.

The pain is paralyzing him. It started in his back and it's affecting all his limbs now. The evidence of it is unsettling. The indomitable warlord that John met almost half a year ago is fading. He brought Bane here to ... to help him, to repay a debt, return a good favour, that's all—but the thought of Bane dying is terrifying, all the same.

Bane drops his hand to his side and looks up at John, as if confused by his body's failings.

“I should be well by now,” he says. “I should be ... training you.”

“Come on,” John says, giving his arm a little tug.

To his relief, Bane narrows his eyes but goes along with John. They clamber out of the pool. This short walk leaves Bane panting harshly. To distract him, John says, “Training me for what?”

Bane sits heavily on the nearest ledge. He gestures loosely at the cave around them and gasps, “Taking up the suit.”

“That's—” John's cheeks burn. Stupid, is what it is. Batman was trained in ninja arts and had all the resources and weapons money can buy. John is an ex-cop who knows a pitifully small amount of defensive t'ai-chi. “I'm not—he didn't want me to be Batman. He left me his technology so I could, so I could be a better detective, work outside the law, help people ...”

Bane gives him the sort of withering look this idea deserves.

“I know how Bruce Wayne's mind worked,” he says. “And I know how happily you risk your life for this city.”

“But I'm not even—look at me,” John says helplessly, spreading his hands. “If I were your size, sure—”

“Barsad was nearly my equal. He was your size.”

Was. The past tense kills John. For weeks Bane kept speaking about Barsad as if he were still alive, even insisted that they leave a message for him in the sewers (“ _at Batman's house_ ”, in what Bane assured him is an obscure language) before moving to the cave. But Barsad's name has come up less and less over the past few weeks. Now, on the day that John finds out he's alive, Bane concedes that he's dead.

John almost opens his mouth to say that Barsad is alive, but suddenly he's afraid Bane will want to storm every prison in the state getting him back. He's in no shape for that. Not to mention John's aversion to law-breaking.

“Barsad's different,” he says finally. “He had the right training.”

“So could you.” Bane struggles to stand up, one hand pressed over his stomach. “If I were ... stronger ...”

“Stop,” John says, pushing him back down. He nearly trips over Harvey, who has reappeared to lie on John's sneaker and suck the water from his shoelaces but bolts for safety when Bane moves. John continues, “Look, you're never going to get stronger unless we fix your mask, and that means taking it—”

Bane's hand comes up to the grille protectively. He glares at John.

“—off,” John sighs.

“No.”

“Fine,” John snaps. His socks are wet and he has a headache. “Suffocate and die, see if I care.”

He stomps off to where he keeps an extra set of clothes and, with great foresight, another pair of shoes. It's not the first time he's stood in the water down here, intentionally or not. He changes his pants and socks and shoes and feels marginally better when his feet are dry again.

Take up the suit. It's ridiculous. It's stupid, is what it is; it's—exactly what John has trying to put out of mind, too busy tending to Bane to give it any real thought. He can't _be Batman_. He's no one, he's just some ex-cop, he's not ... Bruce Wayne.

No one is Bruce Wayne.

But Bruce believed in being a symbol. Batman was never a person: he was an icon. In that suit, that—body armour, maybe John could do it. Maybe he could do anything.

When he returns to the pool's edge, he finds Bane sitting on the same rock ledge, but his face is turned away. His breathing is lighter. John hurries forward, alarmed, and then he sees it. At his feet lies the mask.

He hovers, torn momentarily. Bane groans softly in pain and tilts his head even further away from John, one arm pulled over his face to shield himself. John picks up the mask.

He can see now why Bane is having such a hard time breathing: it's the way the teeth of the mask are crumpled into the grille, partially sealing off air flow. Apart from that, John learns nothing new. Only two of the bristling tubes are connected, feeding anesthetic gas to the mouthpiece. The rest are as broken as ever. He fumbles with them for a bit, just to give his hands something to do, wishing the stupid things would just reconnect on their own. He wishes, ridiculously, that Bruce had been a little gentler in that fight.

When he looks up again, he nearly drops the mask. Harvey blinks at him from Bane's lap, nestled in as though she belongs there. Bane doesn't seem to notice her. He's breathing easier than he has in six weeks.

“Here,” John says, edging cautiously closer and setting the mask down on the ledge at Bane's side. Bane doesn't move. Harvey rubs her mutilated face against his leg tentatively, seeking love. It's the mask she's afraid of, John concludes. It's always been the mask.

After a second, he asks warily, “Can I see?”

“No,” Bane rasps, face twisted firmly away. Disappointed but not surprised, John turns and walks away a few steps, shoving his hands in his pockets. He can hear Bane strapping the mask back on.

He needs help with the last few, finer clasps, though his face is fully covered again. When John looks down he finds Harvey on the floor now, staring up at Bane with every hair on her spine bristling in shock, like she can't believe her new friend has just turned into the monster with the metal face. John smiles at her bewilderment.

“Well?” Bane asks.

John sighs. “I don't know. I can't fix it.”

“I thought not.” Bane stands, wavering for just a moment. He shuts his eyes. When he opens them again, they shine with feverish determination. “No one alive can help me but myself.”

No one alive. And for the first time all day, it clicks. To save Bane, John has got to get to Barsad.


	2. Chapter 2

Barsad first knows the plan has failed when he drifts to murky consciousness with his hands shackled at his sides. He can't see anything, but the voices nearby tell him he is not dead, nor alone.

“... let him die.”

“That's not up to you.”

“Let every piece of shit from Bane's army die. Why are we wasting our time and efforts on them?”

“He's awake.”

“Good, I hope he hears this. Asshole had a bomb strapped to his chest when they brought him in, did you hear?”

“Ammo.”

“What?”

“It was an ammunition belt. Not a bomb ...”

 _Let me die_ , Barsad wants to say. Their plan has failed. Bane and Talia are probably dead. He has nothing left. _Let me die._ But he can't speak. There's a tube in his throat.

He fades out.

 

*  
The gunshot wound Barsad received isn't anything he would normally consider serious. His vest took the brunt of the shot, but the concussive force of the bullet broke a couple of ribs, one of which perforated his lung. He's still surprised at how little time the Americans give him to recover. After one week in hospital, he's transferred to a prison and thrown like a stray dog into a cell.

His cellmate is a black man at least twice his weight, who eyes Barsad from the upper bunk for a moment. It only takes them that moment to come to a silent agreement that neither of them will be any trouble for the other. Barsad takes the lower bunk. He spends that first night listening and learning as much as he can.

The prison is fairly disorganized. There are a lot of looters, thugs, mercenaries, and other roughs who've been rounded up in Gotham and sent to prisons all over the state, but there's still a lot of processing to do at Barsad's prison, given the number of inmates they've just taken on. Barsad keeps his head down and his mouth shut over that first day, blending in with all the other blue-uniformed inmates, watching and planning.

The guards make sure he goes straight to the dining room from his cell and back each mealtime that day. Perhaps they'll stop watching so closely if he stays quiet, unobtrusive. Nobody in here has to know who he is.

His hopes for a quiet, solitary stay are dashed when a joyous cry greets him in the dining room for dinner, the third and last meal of the day. Ekene drops onto the bench at his side, thumping his shoulder.

“Hey, deadshot! You're alive!”

“Not so loud,” Barsad warns him viciously in Yoruba. Ekene shuts up. It takes a moment for the other men at their table to stop eyeing them curiously. Barsad speaks under his breath. “What do you know? Is Bane alive?”

“I don't know.” Ekene replies in the same tongue, sensibly. “But you're here now, so we can bust out and find him, huh?”

“You've been here longer than I have. Tell me what's happening.”

Ekene tells him everything he knows, which ultimately isn't very much. At least one of Bane's other officers is here, but in another dorm. He, Ekene, has made a few friends of the other inmates, which doesn't surprise Barsad. Irritating gnat though he may be, Ekene is good at ingratiating himself with the right people. His friends have told him he'll have to wait for permanent assignment before he can get a job here or take out any books from the library, so the days thus far have been long and boring, and it looks to be a long time before they're permanently assigned, given the general upheaval. The guards here are not so bad and, Ekene adds happily, no one has fucked him in the showers yet.

Barsad shakes his head irritably. He has been to a detention camp in Russia: this place is a sunny picnic compared to there. “Nobody is going to rape you. Just keep your head down and don't make enemies.”

“I won't have any now that you're here,” Ekene says, thumping his shoulder again. “Eh? You could put any guy here on his ass!”

Ekene is young; he doesn't understand. He must think it a fine thing to be seen associating with Bane's right hand man, a dangerous terrorist. If Barsad isn't careful, Ekene will have the whole prison on his head by nightfall.

“We aren't friends,” he tells Ekene fiercely. “Tell no one about me. I'm not here. If you so much as say my name I will cut out your tongue, do you understand?”

“Sure,” Ekene says, looking confused and a little stung. “Of course.”

“Keep your eyes and ears open. Learn as much as you can. I need you, Ekene,” Barsad says, because he knows this will have the desired effect. Ekene's eyes light up. Bane has never so much as cast him a glance; but now Barsad needs him.

“I'll tell you everything I learn,” he says. “You have no worries.”

“Good man,” Barsad says. He can easily think of ten men he'd rather be stuck in here with than Ekene, but he could do worse. Nobody can weasel their way into a man's good graces like Ekene. “And contact others if you can.”

Ekene nods vigorously. Barsad feels slightly better.

 

*  
The guards don't stop watching him. They go out of their way to make his life difficult. They stop him to and from his cell to bark at him, a thin attempt to exert power over him. They may know who he is, they may not. Something about Barsad's taciturn silence, his shrewd eyes, has always made men nervous around him. He is used to being despised. Only Bane saw something he wanted for himself.

Bane. Barsad longs to know his fate. If he is dead, then Barsad has lost everything. Bane was flagging when Barsad last saw him, battered from his fight with the Batman. He had the upper hand, but any number of things could have happened after Barsad left. He'd been protecting Talia, following orders, but it's Bane who's saved Barsad's life a dozen times over. He owes Talia nothing. He should have stayed.

Barsad lives in the present moment, though. What is done is done. If Bane is dead, Barsad will doubtless get what he deserves. If he lives, Barsad will leave this place as soon as he's well enough and find Bane on the other side. If Bane still wants to kill him—well, perhaps he deserves that, too.

He just wants to know.

Ekene sits with him at dinner a week after that first contact, shifting his eyes nervously.

“I shouldn't be seen with you, just so you know,” he says.

Racial relations, Barsad thinks in exasperation, but Ekene goes on, “You know what Bane's guys say about you?”

“No,” says Barsad, irritated. If he knew, he wouldn't have to ask Ekene. “What?”

“They don't know anything,” Ekene assures him. “Except they say that you turned against al Ghul's daughter and tried to convince Bane to turn, too, and that's how you got all beat up before that big brawl. Crazy, right?”

He eyes Barsad hopefully, seeking reassurance.

“I am a servant of the League of Shadows,” Barsad says. “That means my undying loyalty to both Bane and the daughter of Ra's al Ghul.”

Ekene looks relieved. “That's what I told them. You'd never.” He stuffs a roll into his mouth and starts chewing. “Anyway, Rami says the guards are trying to figure out who's closest to Bane in here, and when they find you they gonna take you away and torture you till you tell them where Bane's at.”

This doesn't trouble Barsad. “Anything else?”

“Yeah, he says they're gonna put you on a table and rape you with a big stick.” Ekene pauses, and adds, “Massoud says you gonna like it.”

Barsad sighs. “Americans aren't barbarians.”

“No?” Ekene looks doubtful.

“They pride themselves on this fact. When you have been to a real prison, you'll know what I mean.”

“Okay.” Ekene shovels some more food down, relaxing. “I knew you'd never give up Bane.”

 _How can I_ , Barsad thinks, _when I don't even know if he's alive?_

He is not afraid. The guards hate him. They don't know who he is, but they will surely find out. Barsad knows nothing of his master's whereabouts or wellbeing; he doesn't even know if Bane will accept him back, if he lives. But Barsad's not afraid. And when they come for him, six weeks after his arrival at the prison, he goes without a fuss.

 

*  
The man they bring Barsad to is quintessentially American. His hair is salt-and-pepper, short-cropped, and there's a bit of grey stubble on his face, though he doesn't look old. He wears reflective aviator's sunglasses. He isn't dressed like any of the prison guards. As Barsad is pushed into the chair opposite him at a small table, the man pops a piece of chewing gum into his mouth. Before he puts the pack of gum away Barsad catches the word _nicotine_ on it. He's cataloguing everything, quickly and nonconspicuously.

“Howdy,” the man says, utterly at ease. He waves a hand and the two prison guards leave. Barsad takes note of an old-looking tape recorder on the table. Two cameras in the corners of the room. A one-way glass that gleams under the harsh fluorescent lights. There's a ring just under the table, but he hasn't been chained to it.

The man sighs, stretching his limbs a bit. He swats a button on the tape recorder. A little red light turns on.

“Name's Kilkenny,” the man says. “You know, as in, 'You bastards!'”

He chuckles at his own joke, removing another piece of gum from the pack and popping it in his mouth.

“No? You don't watch South Park? Ah, I guess you wouldn't.” He squints over the rim of the aviators. “Boys here can't even tell me if you speak English.”

Barsad remains quiet and calm. He is very good at maintaining silence. He spent two years in silence during his training in the mountains.

“Hell,” the man grunts suddenly. He swats the tape recorder again; the red light goes off. “This is horseshit. I can't stand doing everything by the book. Rules is rules and all, but when you gotta dot every I and cross every T and sign a waiver just to wipe your own ass... Horseshit. How 'bout we just do this our way, huh?”

Barsad appraises him. The man drags a hand through his hair, rumpling it up.

“So I'm Tom Kilkenny,” he says, and sticks out a hand. “Now how 'bout you tell me if you can't speak English or if you're just playing dumb for the guards?”

He leaves his hand there for several seconds. He's smiling. It's a little reminiscent of a shark before it attacks.

At last, Barsad uncoils his muscles from their tense readiness and takes his hand, chain clinking over the table.

“It's nice to meet you,” he says, thinking of Bane and his unsettling politeness. “Yes, I speak English.”

Kilkenny's smile widens. “Well, that's good,” he says. “That's real good. This'll go a hell of a lot better if—”

“That,” Barsad interrupts him quietly, “is the last time you will hear me speak.”

Kilkenny lets go of his hand and laughs. It turns quickly into a wet, hacking cough.

“Shame,” he says, when he can breathe again. “You speak the damn language better 'n I do. What's that accent, anyway? English, UK? East Europe?”

He laughs again when Barsad says nothing, then takes out a cigarette and lights it, even while he's chewing the gum. Once Barsad is out of prison, it will be a while before he can tolerate the smell of cigarette smoke again.

“You're gonna be a tough nut to crack,” says Kilkenny, smoke trickling from his lips, “I can tell. That's okay. Didn't get to be Bane's number two by spillin' your guts every time you got caught, did ya?” He removes the cigarette and grins, showing his teeth and the gum between his gnashing molars. “That's the word, y' see, that you're the number two guy. Maybe that you even know where he is.” He sits back, folding his brawny arms over his chest. “What d'you think?”

Barsad says nothing.

“You're already checked out. I can see that. Okay.” He gets to his feet, unexpectedly, and winks. “Maybe you'll feel like talking next time...” He looks down at the file. “Barsad, huh?”

On his way out the door, he says to the guards standing there, “Start him on his liquid diet tonight.”

Then, catching Barsad's eye again, he makes a gun out of his thumb and forefinger, points it at him, and makes a clicking noise with his mouth.

“See you tomorrow,” he says.

Barsad cannot altogether make heads or tails of this encounter. That unsettles him more than it should.

He's healed enough. It's time to start working on his escape.


	3. Chapter 3

“Tell me you have good news,” John says as soon as he answers Gordon's call.

He's in Wayne Manor. It's easy to take the lift from inside the cave up to the room with its secret panel, but figuring out how to access that panel from within the room is an impossible puzzle. John is taking every single book off the shelf in front of the panel, half-expecting one of them to release some trigger mechanism. He's already tried prying the shelf away from the wall, to no avail.

“You still can't talk to Barsad,” says Gordon.

“Did you tell them I can get him to talk? They're probably not having any luck.”

Gordon sighs. For the fifth or sixth time, he asks, “Why is this so important to you, John?”

John stops what he's doing and scrubs a hand over his face wearily. It's been more than two weeks since he first asked this favour, and being evasive isn't getting him anywhere. Bane is no better; maybe worse. They need Barsad.

“He's a friend,” John says finally.

Gordon's skepticism is telling in his silence.

“He was ... the only one who was nice to me, sometimes,” John says. “When I was ... a prisoner.”

Gordon sighs again, apparently accepting that. “Okay. Well. You see the papers this morning?”

“No. Why?”

“Take a look when you get a chance. There was an explosion at the state prison. Three staff dead, at least two inmates, a few more unaccounted for. Anyway, they've sealed the place up tighter than Fort Knox. Even if I could make a case for Gotham PD needing to question Bane's number two man—and our mystery agents are adamant that they've got it covered—there's no way they'd let anyone but their own guys in to see him. He's a terrorist. Papers won't even say how the explosion happ—”

“Jesus Christ!” John nearly jumps out of his fucking skin when he turns and finds Barsad sitting cross-legged on the baby grand, watching him.

“What?” Gordon demands.

“Nothing!” John's voice is nearly a yelp. His gun is in his hand; he throws it to the floor, drags a hand through his hair, and clears his throat. “The cat scared the hell out of me just now, is all. Uh, so you really don't think you can get me in?”

“I really don't. I'm sorry, John.”

A minute ago John would have kept pushing. Now he says, “It's okay. Thanks for trying. I'll call you later this week, okay?” And he hangs up.

Barsad is still just sitting there. He must have ditched his prison uniform, because he's wearing blue jeans and a windbreaker over a GCU sweatshirt. His face is a mess of bruises and cuts. He doesn't say anything.

“How long have you been in the room with me?” John demands, when he thinks he's recovered enough.

“A long time,” Barsad admits.

John grunts, annoyed that he'd been startled so easily. It's like nothing Barsad taught him has stuck. Batman wouldn't be startled by anything, he tells himself.

“You look good without a beard,” he says finally. “Suits you.”

Barsad touches a hand to his stubbled but defined jaw, frowning. “The prison guards took a dislike.”

“You look like crap, otherwise,” John says, gesturing at his face. Barsad doesn't offer an explanation. After a minute, John tries, “Uh, how was prison?”

“Bane is alive,” says Barsad. “He left the message in the sewers.”

“Yeah,” John says.

The tension leaves Barsad's shoulders. Between the Gotham U sweatshirt and his almost-clean-shaven appearance, he looks closer to John's age than his real age, and yet somehow no less dangerous.

“That's all I wanted to know,” he says, and he slides off the piano to his feet.

“What—where are you going?” John demands. “Bane's not in the house, he's—hey!”

Barsad's already through the doorway. John catches him up in the hallway, gets in his way. Barsad stops short, eyes flickering dangerously in a way that makes John take a step back.

“Bane needs you,” John says.

“He has you,” says Barsad, emotionless and inflectionless—more so than usual.

“No, he needs _you_ ,” John repeats firmly. “His mask is messed up. I don't know how to fix it. You're the only person who can help him.”

Barsad tilts his head, considering John.

“Please,” John forces out. “Barsad, come on. You're his best friend.”

“Bane has no friends,” Barsad says, but he's crossing his arms over his chest and standing there, not walking away anymore. “What's wrong with the mask?”

“He can't breathe right,” John says. “And he's not getting enough anesthetic. It's killing him.”

“He promised to kill me. Did you know that?”

“You looked for him,” John says, desperate. “You went to the sewers.”

For the first time, Barsad hesitates. “I had to know,” he says. “I didn't think I would find you here.”

“I can't help him,” John repeats. “I've done everything I can do. He needs you.”

Barsad bows his head, thinking. He exhales slowly through his nose.

“Take me to see him, then,” he says finally.

Relief washes over John. “Okay,” he says. “There's a—a cave under the house, with an elevator that leads to that room. I haven't found the entrance from this end yet—that's what I was doing when you were watching me—but there's another way, through the greenhouse ...”

Barsad follows him out of the house without saying anything. He watches John clamber into the old well shaft, head tipped to one side, then follows. He seems unimpressed by the cave. His only reaction is to cock an ear in the direction of the waterfall, eyes narrowing briefly. Harvey pads over to greet John, then shies when she sees Barsad. She turns and bounds away.

They find her curled up on Bane's chest a minute later, riding the rise and fall of his chest as he forces in each breath. He's asleep.

Barsad doesn't blink, but he says, “The cat sleeps with him.”

“Just lately,” says John. “She won't go near him when he's awake, but she guards him when he's asleep.” Which is most of the time, he doesn't add.

Barsad snorts softly. He hangs back and lets John approach. John takes a seat on the edge of the bed. It takes several minutes to rouse Bane. When he finally stirs, Harvey jumps off and slinks under the cot to hide. Bane blinks muzzily up at John.

“Talia,” he murmurs; and then, blinking, he says with more clarity, “John.”

“Yeah. Hi,” John says. “Look. I brought ...”

He trails off. Bane is already struggling to sit up, looking past John, and John knows he wants to see Talia there. He lowers his head, not able to stand Bane's disappointment.

He hears Bane say flatly, “You.”

“Yes,” Barsad says, standing warily back.

Bane squints at him, as if trying to bring him into focus.

“You disobeyed me,” he says slowly.

Barsad just looks at him.

“No,” Bane continues, still peering intently at him. His voice drops from its robotic drone to a crackling growl. “You disobeyed Talia.”

“Yes.”

Bane's voice breaks. “She died because of you.”

“No, Bane,” Barsad says gently. “She died because she went to the bomb alone. I took a bullet for her. I fell.”

Bane takes this in. When he can't seem to decide how he feels about this, he looks to John uncertainly. John nods, encouraging.

“Remember? I told you Barsad was shot. We thought he was dead.”

In one massive, concerted effort, Bane gets to his feet, one hand splayed against the nearest wall for support. John scrambles back off the bed, heart thumping. Barsad takes one step back, but his expression doesn't flicker. He's braver than John would be in the same situation.

Bane seems to be taking in the full measure of Barsad for at least a minute. John is painfully conscious of each ticking second.

“I said I would kill you,” Bane says finally.

“Yes.”

“I won't kill you.” Every word is becoming more of an effort. “You are ... my brother. And ... I'm sorry.”

“Sit, Bane,” Barsad says, finally losing his stiff posture and moving closer. “You're weak.”

“You were right,” Bane says, the words fizzling through the mask faintly. “What you said ...”

He sinks back onto the bed, wheezing for breath.

“You were right,” he finally gasps.

“I know,” Barsad says, pressing him back down onto the mattress. “Rest, brother. I'm here now.”

 

*  
John paces, watching while Barsad hovers over Bane's face, muttering softly to himself in another language. His fingers work deftly over the metal contraptions on the mask. He's absorbed in his work, and it gives John a chance to actually look at him.

He's changed. Barsad has always been lean, but he seems diminished somehow, smaller. His face is gaunt; there are dark bruises under his eyes to go with all the other bruises. He keeps scrubbing a hand over his face, cocking his head as if he can hear a frequency they can't, and every so often, he brings one hand up to rub at his nose and mouth with his wrist, a strange tic John has never seen before. It puts him in mind of a drug addict.

Barsad stops, after several minutes, and sits back on the edge of the cot. His wrist comes up to his face again and he breathes in hard a few times.

“It has to come off,” he pronounces finally.

Bane groans and starts to roll aside.

“Yes,” Barsad snaps. “I have to look at it properly if you expect me to fix it.”

“No,” Bane grates, eyes squeezed shut.

“You. John,” Barsad says sharply. “There is a medical kit here? Bring it to me.”

John obeys. Barsad seems brusquer than before, his temper shorter. He's never been warm, but he wasn't snappish. He takes the med kit out of John's hands and opens it, rummaging swiftly through its contents.

He comes up with a syringe and a vial of liquid. He takes a cotton pad soaked with rubbing alcohol to Bane's neck, and Bane snarls and bats him away, making Barsad swear.

“It's okay,” John says quickly, perching at Bane's side and catching his wrist. Bane's eyes roll up to him, helpless, and John squeezes his hand. His heart gives a pang. “He's trying to help you.”

“It will numb the pain, friend,” Barsad says, with a bit more patience. “Until I can put the mask back on you.”

Bane sighs, a long, hissing exhalation through the mask, and closes his eyes again. Satisfied, Barsad extracts some of the solution into the syringe, wipes Bane's neck with the cotton pad, and injects the liquid. He has to repeat this, explaining, “There will be a lot of pain to numb.”

Bane groans and slings an arm over his face. Barsad cleans up his kit, brisk and professional.

“Comfort your beloved,” he says to John.

“He's not my—” John stops and sighs. He shuffles closer to Bane's head, taking his hand again. “You'll be okay soon. He's going to fix it.”

Bane mumbles something, refusing to move his arm from his face. John frowns, leaning closer. It's not English.

“What?”

“He doesn't want you to look,” Barsad says, squatting next to Bane. Bane's breathing is becoming less harsh. His arm relaxes, slipping sideways off his face. John squeezes his hand, and gets no response.

“What did you give him?”

Barsad pushes Bane's arm out of the way and slaps his face lightly. Bane doesn't move.

“He's asleep,” Barsad says. “To bear him through it.”

“Why didn't you tell him what you were doing?” John demands.

“He would never have consented.” Barsad is already reaching for the hidden clasps of the mask. “You asked me to help you.”

He's impatient and irritable, not the Barsad that John remembers. He sits back, stinging, and watches Barsad undo each clasp. He pauses before he pries the mask away from Bane's face.

“Go,” he says.

John gets up and walks away, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He feels like a child sent to the corner. Behind him, he hears Bane moan, softly, in his sleep. And then: an organic inhale, not filtered through the broken mask.

“There,” Barsad murmurs. John forces himself to keep looking away as Barsad takes the mask away, sits cross-legged a short distance away and begins to work.

He works in silence. John feels awkward and out of place. He listens to Bane's rasping breaths, the way he forces each inhale as if he's still got the mask on. John can't help but feel a little slighted, that Barsad gets to see Bane's face and he, John, doesn't. He can't look much worse with the mask off than he does with it on. He kicks at a pebble with the toe of his shoe. It plunks into the water and vanishes.

When he finally looks up, he's alarmed to see Barsad hunched over with his head in his hands.

“What's wrong?”

Barsad doesn't move for a moment. Then he straightens up, swiping a wrist over his mouth again.

“Headache,” he grunts.

“How does the mask look?”

“Not good.” Barsad turns it over, his features tired and pensive. Then, abruptly, he drops it with a clank to the floor and stands up. “I need a minute.”

“Sure.” John goes back to scuffing at pebbles, figuring that Barsad is off to take a leak or something. After a minute, from somewhere near the lake, he hears a retch and spatter of vomit hitting water.

He closes his eyes, wishing he knew what the hell was wrong. He'd felt so much better having Barsad here, but the assassin is just a shade of his former self. This Barsad is broken-down, too tired to care about John and Bane's plight. John needs the former Barsad, the one who can do anything.

When Barsad comes back, he's pale and has a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He wipes his brow with his sleeve, uncharacteristically shaken. He's breathing hard.

“Are you okay?” John asks carefully.

“Fine,” Barsad says. “Just tired.” He sits down with the mask again. “It will pass.”

“Barsad.” John drops into a sitting position in front of him. “What happened to you?”

Barsad gives him a sharp, calculating look, a typical Barsad expression when he's in the middle of sparring, weighing up his opponent's intentions. John half expects to be flat on his back with a severely bruised thorax in the next fraction of a second, and he tenses in readiness. Then Barsad puts down the mask.

“Fifteen days ago the prison staff learned my identity. One of Bane's men must have finally told them. I was questioned extensively every day. I only escaped last night and I've had no sleep for many days. I went directly to the sewers from the prison and then walked here on foot. I am _tired_.”

“Prison staff did that to your face?” John asks, bristling on Barsad's behalf.

“Of course not,” Barsad says impatiently. He picks up the mask and starts fiddling with the tubing again. John frowns, but lets it go.

“You blew up part of the prison,” he says. “You killed at least five people.”

“And now I'm here, helping you,” Barsad says, his expression unchanging. “Bring me some tools. Whatever you have.”

John gets up reluctantly and trudges away. There's still something Barsad's not telling him. Whatever it is, though, John will never pry it out of him. His interrogator must have learned the same lesson.

When he locates some tools and returns, Barsad suddenly gets to his feet.

“I need light,” he says.

“I can bring you—”

“Take the tools up into the house, wait for me there. As soon as Bane rouses I'll take him to the lift to join you. I can't work down here, and he shouldn't stay here either.”

“What if you get caught?” John asks. “There've been some construction guys—”

“I'll keep him hidden.”

If anyone can do that, it's Barsad. John feels the relief returning to him. He doesn't have to shoulder this alone anymore.

“Okay,” he says. “Come on, Harvey.”

The cat is curled up on Bane again, but when she sees John is leaving she bounds into the lift with him. The grates clatter shut. Before the lift takes them out of sight, John catches a last glimpse of Barsad with the mask in his hands, staring out over the water. Without Bane at his side, the way it used to be, he looks lost and alone.


	4. Chapter 4

When John returns to the mansion in the morning, Barsad looks much more like himself.

“Hey, you got your scarf back,” John says, gesturing. “Good for you. Where's your gun?”

Barsad raises a hand to the red kerchief. He's also wearing a pair of black cargo pants and a ragged military-style coat over a utility harness. He seems a lot more relaxed than he was in the cave, more like his old self.

“Lost,” he says. “I recovered another bullpup.”

The new rifle looks identical to the old one, not that John knows a whole lot about rifles. Best of all is what Barsad found hidden in a smashed-up tumbler that somehow ended up down in the sewers: Bane's massive, heavy shearling.

“I'll have to wash it,” John says, picking it up delicately. He has kinda-fond memories of falling asleep curled up under this coat. It smells like blood and sweat and wet dog. Underneath that—Bane. “He must be happy.”

“I don't know. He's barely woken.”

They're standing in one of Bruce Wayne's guest bedrooms, where Bane rests. Harvey's already left John's side to take up her post on his chest.

“Have you slept?” John asks, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress next to Bane so he can examine the mask. Barsad shakes his head.

“No time. He needed supplies.”

He seems to have gotten over his annoyance, if that's what it was, at finding that John was taking care of Bane. Moreover, he's accepted that John is hopeless at this and he's leapt with all his old fanaticism into the task of mending Bane. He looks more alert than yesterday, but the shadows under his eyes are even darker.

“You need to sleep,” John says. “And eat.” He hefts the plastic bag at his side. “I brought groceries.”

“Thank you,” says Barsad, not moving to take anything.

“Maybe you can make one of those liquid shakes for Bane. I tried, and I think he's been taking them, but I didn't know what you put in them.”

“Bring me a blender and I'll make his protein drinks,” Barsad says.

John gives up; he's too curious. The mask looks no different to John since Barsad started working on it, and he wants to know. “So how's the mask? Did you fix it?”

“I adjusted the flow of the anesthetic gas,” Barsad explains. “The canisters were nearly empty. That's why I went scavenging.”

He tosses a canister across the room to John. It's unmarked, a small metal can that apparently houses Bane's anesthetic gas.

“I never thought to check,” John says sheepishly.

“Bane sleeps a little easier today.” Barsad looks at his fallen leader from the chair where he's perched. “You must have had a difficult time bringing him here from the sewers.”

“He did all the hard work,” John says.

“You've made him sentimental while I've been gone,” Barsad chides. “He was determined to know who'd beaten me so he could return the favour. It took some convincing for him to believe they're still in prison.”

“So it was other inmates?”

“Loyalists to Bane's cause,” says Barsad, “who foolishly thought I could be persuaded to betray him. They called me a traitor. Bane is gravely offended on my behalf,” he says, without smiling. “Have you been having sex with him?”

The question comes out of nowhere. John almost chokes on his own spit.

“What—no,” he splutters, embarrassed. “No. He's a little injured, if you hadn't noticed—”

“He was injured two months ago. Those wounds are healing. It's the old ones that are paining him now, and he has no spirit to mend them.” The corner of Barsad's mouth twitches. “I was just curious,” he says.

John looks away, his face burning. What he and Bane used to do was—a product of temporary insanity, brought on by the fact that John was convinced they were all going to die in a fiery explosion in a matter of weeks. It was reckless. It was crazy, and it's over now. Bane doesn't even look at him like that anymore.

“He just wants Talia back,” John says finally. “And I'm not her. So is the mask fixed, or what?”

“No,” says Barsad, after hesitating for a second. “I worked on it all night. All I could do was change the amount of the gas he's inhaling. He still has to fight for every breath, and he's growing very tired.”

“So what now?” John asks, feeling his own exhaustion catch up with him. “Can you help him or not?”

“I can't,” says Barsad.

Fuck. John puts his head in his hands. If Barsad tells him Bane is just going to die, when John's spent the past two fucking months doting on him like a fool—

“But I know who can,” Barsad breaks in on his thoughts gently. John lifts his head at once.

“Who?”

“The men who made the mask,” Barsad says. “The League of Shadows.”

John wants to say, confusedly, that Barsad is the League of Shadows. Then he thinks about what he knows of these men of myth. “The ninjas,” he says. “The ones in the mountains.”

“Yes.”

“And you can get Bane there?”

“Yes.”

John's on his feet immediately. “How soon?” he asks.

“Bane and I go home to the mountains tomorrow,” Barsad answers. “I can take care of him until we reach Ra's al Ghul's temple.”

“That's great,” John says, and he means it. Just because Bane's a bad guy doesn't mean John wants to see him die a miserable, agonizing death. Bane deserves better than this; that's why John's been fighting so hard for him. And sending him to the mountains answers the uneasy question of what to do with Bane once he's better. John had never quite gotten that far in his planning. Now he'll be back where he belongs, like a tiger released into the wild, and Gotham will be free of him.

There's a little niggling sense of disquiet in the back of John's mind, though. After two months of nursing, Bane is going to be gone from John's life by tomorrow. It's good, John tells himself firmly. It's a good thing. He should be distancing himself from Bane by now anyway. John's supposed to be one of the good guys, and Bane ... isn't.

And then Bane wheezes out, “John.”

Alarmed, Harvey jumps up and bounds down the bed to where Bane's feet are. The mercenary's eyes are half open. John is at his side quickly.

“Yeah. Hey,” he says. “What is it?”

Bane closes his eyes. Takes a few breaths. Opens them again.

“I want you with me,” he says.

“Uh,” John says, faltering. “At—the place where the ninjas live?”

“Yes,” Bane says. “I want you there.” He takes a deep breath. “We can train you.”

“He belongs here, Bane,” Barsad cuts in. “The League of Shadows is no place for a headstrong police officer.”

“I'm not a cop anymore,” John tells him, stung in spite of himself. Barsad hates cops, but John always thought Barsad saw him differently. “What do you think I'm gonna do? Arrest them all?”

“Your profession and upbringing give you an inflated sense of self-worth,” Barsad says—mocking him. John is on his feet again, bristling.

“My _upbringing_ gives me self-worth? My parents are dead, man. I got labeled a _problem child_ and volleyed around to a bunch of foster families that couldn't wait to get rid of me. Yeah, I've got self-worth coming out of my ears, here.”

“You think being an orphan means you understand suffering?” Barsad sneers. “You know nothing.”

“Jesus, what happened to you?” John snaps. “What crawled up your ass and died while you were in prison?”

Barsad snaps his mouth shut angrily just as Bane growls, “Enough.”

For a few seconds they're all quiet. Then John sits back down on the bed, slowly. Bane blinks up at him, and it might be John's imagination that his gaze is pleading.

“I can't go to the mountains,” John says to him, forcing a rough little laugh. “I've never even been to Canada. I mean, come on ...”

“We will train you there,” Bane says. He looks pathetic, with his mask crumpled and broken. “And I will ... take care of you. If you come.”

John takes a deep breath, and it sinks in, what Bane's saying, all of a sudden. He's not saying, _come with me so they can train you_. He's saying, _train there, so you can be with me._

The difference is a little scary. John knows it's because Talia's gone—Bane is afraid to lose him, too. But how much can Bane take care of him, in this state? How dangerous is it going to be if Barsad's so convinced he can't hack it, after saying John is his best pupil?

And then he forgets all that, and he thinks of Bruce Wayne, who trained with the League of Shadows first. Bruce, who left his secret legacy to John so that it wouldn't die. And John is about to let it.

“I'll go,” he says. Bane's eyes fall shut in relief. “I'll train.”

“For what?” Barsad asks curiously. His hackles are down again; he's sitting, relaxed.

“The sake of suffering,” John says. For the first time since John's seen him out of prison, Barsad smiles.

“Good answer,” he says.

 

*  
John's finished packing. For all intents and purposes, he's ready to go. There's just one last order of business.

Gordon looks surprised to see John on his doorstep. “Blake, come on in,” he says, holding the door open wider.

John steps inside, but shakes his head. “I'm not staying long. I just wanted to ask another favour.”

“Sure,” Gordon says warily.

“Can you look after Harvey for a while?”

“Harvey?” Gordon echoes. Then, spotting the lump under John's coat: “The cat?”

“Yeah.” John unzips his coat enough to let Harvey poke her head out. “I'm leaving Gotham for a bit. I don't know how long. Her food's in the car. And her litter box, and toys ...”

“Where are you going?”

John drags a hand through his hair. “I don't ... really know, yet,” he confesses.

“Going to find yourself, huh?” Gordon says, though he still looks a little suspicious. “You don't have a neighbour who'll drop in and feed her?”

John shakes his head again. He's not sure he'll even have an apartment by the time he gets back. “She likes to have company. I know you're at work a lot, but all she really needs is a little attention at the end of the day. She ... she likes to be petted. And ...”

He trails off when Harvey starts purring inside his coat, seemingly for no reason. He looks down at her. She's not a pretty cat, he thinks. Stumpy little legs, stubby little tail, slightly squashed face. Her coat's grey, not a nice silver grey but dull rock-grey, crinkly and growing in off-white where there were burns. Her face still looks awful, with the empty eye socket and tattered ear on one side, her gnarled whiskers and twisted, scarred muzzle. She's ugly.

She purrs, rubbing her cheek against him.

John told her he wouldn't leave her again, after he got her back from Bane. Cats don't care about broken promises, but John cares. He knows what it's like to feel wanted for a short time, to be told all the right things, only to be let down and dumped on someone else's doorstep, yet again. He knows how it feels to be left behind, just when you think you might have finally found a real home.

“You know what, never mind,” John says, his throat suddenly constricted for no reason. He can't leave her. He just can't. “Sorry. I'll figure something else out.”

Gordon squints at him. “Are you doing okay, Blake?”

“Yeah. I'm fine.”

“Your friend Barsad is out of prison,” Gordon says.

John makes himself look startled. “Already?”

“He escaped. I wondered if you might have seen him. He doesn't have many friends left out there.”

“I don't think he'd call me a friend,” John says evasively. He's not lying.

Gordon gazes steadily at him. His stare goes on for so long that John fidgets.

“I haven't seen him.”

“I want to show you something,” Gordon says abruptly. “Do you have time?”

John glances around for a clock. Barsad was very insistent about their departure time. “I really don't ...”

“In that case, give me a second,” Gordon says. He leaves the hallway and disappears.

John stands there with Harvey in his arms. Gordon is back in a few minutes. He's holding out a flash drive.

“I was going to email this to you anyway,” he says, and gives it to John. “Open that when you're alone. Don't share it with anyone.”

“Sure,” John says, slipping it in his pocket.

“And have a nice time wherever you're going, will you? Take it easy.”

John laughs. Taking it easy is probably the last thing on the agenda. “Okay.”

Gordon stands in the doorway and waves him off. John can't help hoping, with a pang, that this won't be the last time he sees the old detective.

 

*  
Barsad's only comment when he sees Harvey in John's arms is, “The cat is coming with us?”

“I'm not leaving her,” John says, bracing himself for a fight. But Barsad just shrugs, as though it doesn't matter to him.

“She won't like the plane,” he says.

He's right.

They travel by cargo plane. Once it's off the ground, they're allowed to leave the hold and sit in a row of shabby passenger seats. There are no other passengers; nobody travels commercially by cargo plane these days. John can see why. It's awful, in his opinion. He's never traveled anywhere by plane in his life. He's barely been outside of Gotham. It's too confining and too noisy and definitely way too bumpy.

“Is that turbulence?” John keeps asking compulsively. “How high up are we?”

Bane, with a heavy scarf draped around his head and face so that only his eyes show, appears amused by his distress. Barsad looks like he's regretting ever agreeing to bring John along. Harvey just quakes fearfully in John's lap, and the smell of cat puke refuses to dissipate. It's a very long flight and John hates every minute of it.

“This is an old plane,” he says, his arms wrapped around Harvey. “What if there's a hole in the fuselage and it gets ripped open? This whole thing could depressurize. We'd suffocate in seconds, if we didn't get sucked right out.”

“There is nothing to be afraid of, John,” Bane says, eyes crinkling.

The plane drops—just drops two thousand feet in about three seconds. Harvey pukes again. Barsad manages to hand John a bag before he hurls, too.

“Air pocket,” says Barsad, unruffled.

It's many hours before they finally land. John steps, somewhat shakily, onto the soil of a different continent, and is struck by that for a moment. Then they have to get on another plane—this one not so big or old. He sleeps fitfully, and wakes at one point with his head pressed to Bane's shoulder. Bane is sleeping, too. Barsad's awake, though, and seems restless, even though they're far from Gotham now and don't have to be nearly as covert. John tucks himself more firmly into Bane's side—he's not awake to notice, it doesn't matter—and goes back to sleep.

It's a day and a half since they left Gotham by the time that plane lands. The next long leg of the journey is by boat. The captain doesn't speak English. He seems to know Barsad and Bane, though, because he treats them deferentially. They're given a couple of cabins, and Bane drops onto a bed and falls asleep as soon as he's shown to it, as if traveling all this way has spent all of his energy. Harvey, still recovering from her air-sickness, curls up on his chest and likewise is out like a light. John wants to go up on deck, though, and he pesters Barsad to join him.

“Go alone,” Barsad says.

“The crew keep staring at me,” John says. “And I don't know their language.”

“They're wondering why you brought a cat on their ship,” Barsad says, but he takes John up.

After a day and a half of musty airplanes, the fresh sea air is a blessing. They walk down the deck, passing crewmen who nod respectfully to Barsad, until they reach the back of the boat. Its wake stretches all the way back to the port, still visible for a while. It melts away on the horizon, leaving nothing but a shimmering trail.

Barsad's hands clench the railings tightly and he breathes hard, staring at the water. A few times he rubs his face compulsively. Seasick, maybe, but after the plane ride from hell John would've guessed he has a stomach of steel.

“When do we get to the mountains?” John asks, wanting to break the silence.

“When we reach land there will be a Jeep waiting for us. We drive the last stretch and then travel by foot to the temple.”

“You think Bane can climb a mountain in this state?”

“He's done it before,” Barsad says. He brings a hand up to scrub at his face, panting. “Under worse conditions.”

“Cut that out,” John says, finally needing to comment on it. “You look like a drug addict.”

Barsad stiffens, taken aback. He seems to realize for the first time that his hand is halfway to his face.

“People will think you've been snorting coke or something,” John says, trying for a light joke.

Barsad drops his hand to the railing and squeezes it until his knuckles turn white. His expression doesn't change, but John can sense sudden anger boiling in him. He shifts sideways, wishing he'd said nothing now.

“Are you gonna train me at the temple?” he asks, to change the subject.

“I need to focus on training myself. I'm ... weak.”

“You're not weak,” John says. “You're the strongest person I know next to Bane.”

Barsad's face twists in a snarl. “We failed, and your bloated whore of a city made me weak,” he bites out. “I need to train.”

John is startled into silence. Again, he's struck by this changed version of Barsad. He seems to fluctuate between his old self and this new, ill-tempered persona.

Barsad softens after several minutes when John doesn't speak again. His grip on the railing relaxes a little and he gives John a gentle cuff.

“I will train you, little brother,” he says quietly, himself again. “When I feel strong.”

John smiles and relaxes, too. Carefully, he says, “You know, you can talk to me if something's wrong.”

“There is nothing to talk about,” Barsad says, poker-faced.

John slides away from the rail. “I'm going inside.”

It's cold on the deck, and he shoves his hands into his pockets as he walks away. His right hand brushes something hard and smooth. The flash drive. He'd forgotten.

He tracks down some crew members and asks if there's a computer on board, with some creative miming. One of them gets it, and leads him below-deck to a dark, cramped room where there's an old PC and a phone hanging on the wall. John thanks him, and he nods and leaves.

The computer takes some time to boot up. Once it's on, it reads the USB easily enough and a folder opens. There are two files. One is a video, the other text. The text file is entitled “Read First”. He opens it.

_John,_

_A friend passed this along to me. Our mystery agency was given permission from the White House to use “enhanced interrogation”. That's all I can say. It's supposed to be a military training video._

_You won't like what you see - I didn't either. And I know you may want to protect him, even if I don't understand why. Just remember: Barsad is loose now, he's a dangerous terrorist, and he is very likely angry. If you know ANYTHING AT ALL... get in touch. And stay safe!!!_

 

Full of apprehension, John opens the video file. It takes some time to load. While the computer is opening the file, he rummages around and finds a speaker to adjust the volume, then double checks that the door is closed.

The video starts. Its quality is slightly grainy, but it becomes clearer after a few seconds. The camera is mounted on a wall in the corner of a room so sterile-looking as to seem hospital-like: white tile with a drain on the floor, white walls and a stainless steel sink, harsh fluorescent glow over everything. There are four men in the frame; one in a white coat standing off to one side and two who look like soldiers, standing to either side of a table in the middle of the room. On the table is Barsad. His arms are strapped to the table at his side and his legs are in restraints, too. John recognizes him even with a cloth lying over his mouth and nose. His eyes are closed, maybe in meditation. He doesn't look distressed.

Another man strolls into view, wearing sunglasses and puffing on a cigarette. He takes the man in the white coat aside and confers with him, too quietly for the camera to pick up. Then he walks over to the table.

“Morning, buddy,” he says, doing something to the table that makes it tilt so Barsad's head is lower than his feet. John adjusts the volume a bit. “You gonna talk today?” Then the man laughs, a harsh, coughing sound. “'Course you ain't, or we wouldn't still be here.”

He picks up a bucket that sloshes audibly. “You got a new doc today who hasn't seen this done before, so we're gonna give him a little demo.”

Without preamble, he lifts the bucket and tips some water onto the cloth on Barsad's face. Barsad doesn't react, but John can see his hands slowly clenching into fists at his sides.

Waterboarding. John's heard of it but never seen it; he's sort of sickly fascinated. He's surprised by the smoking man's carelessness. He's starting without even having asked Barsad a question.

“Here's how this goes,” the smoking man says to the doctor. “I pour water on the cloth, we take it off for a bit, then it goes back on. If he wants to talk he can do his best or wait for a break, but he hasn't cracked yet.”

Barsad exhales; the man pours a stream of water onto the cloth without warning. He pours it for a count of five seconds, then stops. One of the other men is already filling a new bucket for him at the sink.

“You're here to step in when he loses consciousness,” the man goes on, dragging away on his cigarette. He pulls it down to a stub and flicks it away. “Ready for the real thing, buddy? Gonna tell me where Bane's hiding today?”

Barsad is stoic and unresponsive, though he's gagging slightly under the cloth. The man laughs, lighting another smoke.

“Toughest sonuvabitch I ever did meet,” he says, with something close to respect. “Never saw anyone go a whole two hours without talking before this guy. All right, let's get started.”

A few minutes in, John realizes he's holding his breath unconsciously, his chest burning in sympathy. All the careless geniality leaves the smoking man when he gets down to business. There is no respite. He tips water continuously onto the cloth, sometimes for ten seconds, twenty; once as long as forty, until John thinks his own lungs will burst. The man asks different questions, often yelling them in Barsad's face. Where is Bane? What is he planning? Where did Barsad meet him? Who else is in league with him?

Barsad doesn't say a word. He just chokes, and at one point the doctor, hovering closely, says, “He's vomiting,” but the other man snorts, chewing his cigarette in frustration.

“He's always puking. It's just liquid.”

When he takes the cloth off, he gives Barsad only four full, gasping breaths, waiting patiently. “Ready to talk?” he asks. Barsad shuts his eyes and shakes his head, and the grinning man says, “Your funeral.”

John can't watch the entire forty-minute video. The sympathetic need to breathe burns and claws in his chest. It makes him remember falling through the ice back in Gotham, scrabbling to find the surface, panic setting in. This man is suffocating Barsad, knows he's suffocating him, and doesn't care. When Barsad stops breathing, he sends the doctor in to revive him. Then he starts again.

It doesn't stop. John can't watch. He ends the video and ejects the flash drive, heart pounding, stomach churning.

He thinks of Barsad in the cave, trying to block out the sound of the waterfall. On the deck right now, glaring at the water as if he can master it somehow. That new habit of rubbing at his face has nothing to do with drug use. He's swiping away a phantom cloth, making sure that he can breathe.

He thinks he's weak.

John can't go on deck to see him. Barsad can never know that John is the one who gave him away to the agents. He shuts down the computer and finds his way across the small ship to their cabin.

Bane is awake now. Harvey isn't on him anymore: she's asleep on the bed, and Bane is slowly trailing a fingertip down her spine, over and over. When John pushes the door all the way open, Bane pulls his hand away.

“You're upset,” he observes, his eyes roving over John's flushed face.

“They tortured Barsad in Gotham,” John says. His eyes sting. He can't believe he fucked up so bad.

“Yes,” Bane says.

There's a pause. When Bane makes the connection that this news is what's got John so upset, he sighs through the broken mask.

“Barsad has been tortured many times. He is strong.”

“They drowned him,” says John, throat tight. “Over and over—”

“And he survived, and came to us,” Bane says, in his emotionless, droning robot voice. “I told you: Barsad is strong.”

“I think he's hurting.”

“Then you think wrong,” Bane says simply.

“You don't care, do you?” John sits down on the bed next to him, his fingers digging into the starchy sheets. “He's more loyal to you than anyone.”

“Which is how I know he didn't break.” Each word is a laborious effort. “It is in the past. He will use the experience to become stronger. Something you should learn to do ... if you are to train with us.”

John sighs. He leans against Bane without thinking.

“I don't know if I'm gonna like your temple,” he says, still queasy. All his old doubts are creeping in.

“You will,” Bane says, perfectly confident. “You'll see, little songbird. I will teach you how to fly.”


	5. Chapter 5

Climbing the mountain to the temple is one of the worst things John's ever had to do in his life.

It didn't seem so bad, from the ground. At ground level there was scrubland, some tough plants growing in the gritty soil, clinging to life, and the slopes didn't look so intimidating. Now they're up high, sometimes scaling rock faces. When John looks down, he can see an expanse of blue glacier below.

Even Barsad seems exhausted, though it's hard to say what he's been running on—it hasn't been sleep. He keeps going stubbornly, pulling John to his feet when he falls; but mostly, pushing Bane to keep going. That's the worst part. Bane can barely coordinate his limbs to climb. Barsad alternatively chivvies, bullies, encourages, and pulls him along. He swears at Bane and then carefully aids him, both liberties John is sure he wouldn't take under normal circumstances.

It's not a question of strength, because Bane is more than a match for any other man even in this state. It's his spirit. The fire that drives him is flickering at a lower ebb than ever. He keeps lying down, wanting to sleep. When Barsad literally drags him to his feet, cussing and spitting, John wonders if Barsad's as scared as he is.

The only one not troubled is Harvey, curled up in John's pack with some blankets.

Improbable as it seems, there is a tiny village partway up the mountain. The smell of smoke and goats reaches them before it comes into sight. Barsad is their ambassador; he greets the villagers respectfully and communicates that they're from the League. At once they're led to a hut and given smoked meat, cooked rice, and tea. The warm food sits comfortably in John's stomach, but they've barely finished before Barsad is roughly urging Bane upright again. Bane, of course, hasn't touched the food or drink, and spent the entire respite slumped against the wall with his eyes closed.

“Come on, man,” John begs, “let us rest for a little while. You're killing him.”

“There's snow coming,” Barsad says, implacable. “The longer we rest, the more deeply he sleeps. Soon he won't wake up. It's not far from here,” he adds. He doesn't tell John he can stay behind if he likes. He knows that without John, Bane won't move an inch.

John's legs are numb. He's a little surprised when he manages to stand, wobbly, on both feet. Barsad gives him a quick, weary smile before tugging up his scarf and turning to lead Bane.

He's right: it's not far. The snow starts to fall after an hour. An hour after that, it's coming down in a howling sheet; and then the walls of snow part for a brief second, and there's the temple.

It's a colossus of wood and stone, built right into the face of the mountain itself. John can only catch a glimpse before the snow veers to drive into his face and cling to his eyelashes, and he has to drop his head, but he preserves the image in his mind, following the path that was briefly visible. It's a wonder, a monument to human architecture. Bruce Wayne once walked this same path, he thinks.

Bane and Barsad are suddenly at his side again. Bane is hovering, waiting to make sure John is still behind them. He's been making this trek in a soporific daze, but the sight of the temple seems to have revived him a little. When he sees John, his eyes—the only visible part of him—crease at the corners. He says something that's doubly muffled by the mask as well as his scarf.

“You're beautiful,” Barsad shouts over the wind, leaning close.

“Thanks,” John shouts back.

“I was translating. To me you look like a scrawny American who won't last a day here.”

“You're as scrawny as I am, you know that?” John yells. There's a flicker of good humour in Barsad's eyes. He's coming back to life, too, strengthened by their nearness to the temple that made him a warrior. John is relieved, even as his stomach does a little half nervous, half pleased flip. Bundled in a dozen layers, red-cheeked from wind burn, Bane thinks he's beautiful. Probably delirious.

They stagger up the path, and the door looms out of the blizzard. Barsad raises a gloved fist and bangs three times on the wood. It creaks open slowly.

Inside, it's dark and quiet. Torches flicker on the walls, and a little warmth starts to penetrate John's layers. He slings off his heavy pack and tugs off his hat, smoothing out his hair with one hand. Only then does he notice the man standing right in front of them. The man is in a dark belted tunic, with an honest-to-God sword hanging in a sheath at his side. He's a swarthy, dark-haired man whose expression betrays nothing.

Barsad shuts the door behind them; then, turning to the other man, he brings a closed fist to his heart. The other man repeats the gesture. Barsad uncurls his fingers and moves his hand away; this motion is mirrored. Some kind of salute, John thinks.

“Welcome home, brother,” the man says. He turns and bows to Bane, who is leaning heavily on Barsad, wheezing audibly in the quiet of the room. “We were told you were coming. But who is the third?”

“Bane needs medical attention, at once,” Barsad says, ignoring the question. He switches to another language, possibly Chinese. After a rapid delivery of words, the other man nods and bows and shouts a command. Three more men bound out of the dark, and gather Bane between them to lead him away.

“Where are they going?” John demands, torn between the urge to go after them and to stay with Barsad, where he knows it's safe.

“He's in good hands,” Barsad says. To the dark-haired man, he says, “A disciple. Here to train in the ways of the League.”

“Can he fight?”

“A little.”

John opens his mouth to say he can fight more than a little, but the man attacks him before he can speak. John stumbles backward—Barsad shifts out of the way without catching him—and then his knees are knocked out from under him. He hits the floor and can't dodge a kick, but he rolls with the momentum and manages to scramble onto his feet, just barely. He realizes Barsad isn't going to step in or help him, and anger flickers in him. When he sees the next blow coming—a move he recognizes from sparring with Barsad, what seems like an age ago—he catches the man's fist.

There are quiet exhalations all around, and John suddenly realizes they have an audience. His eyes are adjusting to the dim light. Men dressed similarly to Barsad's friend are thronged against the walls. Across the vast room from the door is an ornately carved wooden chair, like a throne. It's empty.

The man in front of John bows his head.

“Welcome, little brother,” he says.

John lets his hand go, stinging. He glances at Barsad, whose face is unreadable as usual.

“Thanks,” he says at last.

“Jinhai,” the man barks. A young man appears at his side, clad entirely in black. Like a ninja. “Show our friend to his quarters.”

The ninja bows. John turns, uncertainly, to Barsad, who nods.

“Go. I'll be behind you.”

Before he goes with the ninja, John stoops and unzips his pack. Harvey is half-frozen and slightly suffocated when he lifts her out, too cold to even shiver. He puts her in his coat and cradles her gently.

The ninja watches him curiously as he leads John down a series of passages and suspended wooden walkways. The whole thing is like the inside of a fantastical pirate ship, except for the Oriental designs and carvings present everywhere.

“Do you speak English?” John finally asks.

“Yes,” the ninja says. “You come with Bane?”

“Yeah.”

“Where is Talia al Ghul?”

“Not here,” John says.

Barsad catches them up. He takes one look at Harvey, whose head is drooping out of John's coat, and lifts her out to start rubbing her fur roughly in circles.

“Get her blood flowing,” he says to John.

“Thanks,” John says. Harvey opens her mouth in a creaky little meow of protest. That's probably a good sign.

Jinhai takes them through open bridge-like pathways to another building altogether and finds two empty rooms. A third room, across from John's, is vacant, hopefully awaiting Bane. The rooms are all simple and small—a single bed, a chair, and a brazier in each, with a couple torches on the walls. Jinhai lights the torches in the former two rooms, generating little warmth. With a last bow, he leaves them.

“This room is freezing,” John says.

Barsad takes a torch and uses it to light the brazier. John's never seen one before. He's surprised at how quickly warmth starts to spread across the room.

“Keep it close to your bed, but not too close,” Barsad advises. He places Harvey in a limp little puddle in front of the flames, and adds, “Unless, of course, you choose a more ascetic path.”

“What's that?”

“A form of training that requires immense self-discipline,” Barsad says. “Your worldly possessions would amount to a single blanket. You would eat and drink nothing but unsalted rice and tea.”

There's a wry tilt to his mouth. John says, “You chose that, didn't you?”

“I designed an even more restricted regime for myself,” Barsad says complacently. “It involved monastic silence and chastity.”

“There's no one to fuck around here anyway,” John points out. “Except the goats.”

Barsad sighs and cuffs him. “No orgasms. Something you would have great difficulty with, I'm sure.” John subsides, smarting, and Barsad goes on, “Thus, I was freed to spend at least eight hours a day meditating and eight hours training.”

“That sounds shitty,” says John. “Why do that to yourself?”

“Because I needed to cleanse my body and mind,” Barsad says, as if it's obvious. “I was full of anger then. I needed to be able to see clearly. Then I could channel my anger into purpose. That purpose led me to Bane.”

John thinks of Bane. He doesn't even know where they whisked him off to. Doubt nibbles at him. “They'll take good care of him here, right?”

“The best of care,” Barsad says. “Don't be worried. They know what he needs.”

 _He needs me_ , a tiny voice in the back of John's mind says. He smothers it.

“Well, you be an ascetic,” he says, shrugging. “I choose orgasms.”

Barsad squints at him. “Perhaps you should at least consider the vow of silence.”

“Ha ha,” John says, deadpan. “I'll try my best not to spew any capitalist propaganda while I'm here.”

“Just don't embarrass me,” says Barsad, as inscrutable as ever. “Your training starts tomorrow.”

“What about Bane?”

“What about him?” Barsad shrugs. “You can see him soon, if you're concerned. Try to sleep now.”

“Thanks, Barsad.” John considers saying something before he leaves, maybe another offer to talk if he needs to, but he knows Barsad will deflect him again, so he says nothing. Barsad leaves, and John yells after him, “Hey, you get some sleep too!”

He dresses in front of the brazier and ends up shivering anyway, then scoops Harvey up, pressing her to his chest like a soft toy, and gets under the blankets on his bed. It feels ... weird, somehow, not knowing exactly where Bane is or how he's doing. They might have accidentally killed him by now.

He pushes those thoughts away. Barsad trusts these men, and that means John has to trust them, too.

 

*  
In the morning, Barsad is gone.

John wakes to Harvey licking his toes under the blankets, apparently revived, and Jinhai watching him sleep. He shudders and rolls over.

“Uh,” he croaks groggily. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Joachim wishes to meet with you,” Jinhai says.

“Who's Joachim?”

“He greeted you.”

The guy who tried to punch John in the face. Disgruntled, John rolls out of bed and gets dressed.

He stops outside Barsad's door before following Jinhai down the hall. The door is open. The bed is still made and unmussed; the torches are burnt out and the brazier hasn't been lit. John turns to Jinhai, standing behind him.

“Where's Barsad?”

That's when Jinhai tells him. Barsad is gone.

“Gone?” John echoes. “What do you mean, gone?”

“He is gone,” Jinhai says. “Come.”

“Gone where?”

Jinhai shrugs, the universal sign for _hell if I know_. John frowns. It occurs to him that Barsad could already be taking breakfast with the other ninjas, maybe waiting for John.

But they don't see him when they cross a room full of men cradling cups of tea. Joachim is seated in an adjacent room at a low table on the floor, in front of a steaming cup of tea of his own. There's one for John too. As he sits across from the other man, Jinhai sets down two bowls of porridge.

“Thanks,” John says. To Joachim, he says, “Where's Barsad?”

“Gone,” says Joachim.

This is John's first indication that life with ninjas is going to be trying.

He eats the porridge, because he's starved and freezing again. There's a wide open window—if “window” is the right word, because there's no glass panes anywhere—behind Joachim overlooking a mountain view that John is too chilly to appreciate. Joachim eats more sedately.

“Are you the leader here?” John asks, between bites. Joachim shakes his head.

“Barsad told me what happened to Talia al Ghul in Gotham,” he says. “She was our leader. I merely kept the temple for her. Now Bane will lead us, as he has done before.”

John perks up. “He's okay, then? Can I go see him?”

“Not yet,” says Joachim. “If it is acceptable to you, your training will begin now.”

There's a dark glint in his eye that says John's going to start training whether he finds it acceptable or not. Barsad's like that, too. The only time he didn't force John to spar with him was when Bane strictly ordered him; otherwise he showed no mercy.

He's probably somewhere in the temple, John decides, meditating or whatever it is Barsad does. Mainly, he wants to see Bane, but he can see there'll be no getting around Joachim right now.

“Okay,” John sighs, draining the last dregs of tea. “Train me.”

Joachim wants to test him first, to see how much he knows. He does this by pairing John with novices, boys barely capable of growing facial hair who look like they've never cracked a smile in their lives. John thinks it's a joke, at first; and then the first one puts him in a joint lock that brings tears to his eyes.

Okay. If they're going to hurt him, he can hurt them too. He wipes the floor with the three that Joachim pits against him one at a time. They've got the self-discipline down, and they know some martial arts, but they make a dance out of it, too artful to be effective. John learned a long time ago that fighting isn't about looking good; it's about inflicting as much pain as possible, as quickly as possible. He's not above ripping hair out of scalps or using his knees. The boys put up a good defense, but John's graceless brutality overwhelms them fast. They've never fought someone like him.

“You can learn from this experience,” Joachim tells them when all three are standing in a line, abashed. “Death is not predictable. You cannot anticipate what form it will come in. Reflect on this. Go.”

They bow and leave. Joachim turns to John.

“You are very fast. But sloppy.”

“So I've heard,” John says, rolling his shoulder to loosen it. “I won, didn't I?”

“Against boys who train with martial artists,” Joachim replies. “Your ferocity will help you, but not if it is mindless. You expend too much energy too quickly by lashing out without knowing where or whether your blow will land. We can guide you and shape you here. That ferocity will become a weapon. When you strike, your enemies will fall at your feet.”

That kind of makes sense. John nods slowly, trying to picture himself in Batman's suit, having the strength to put someone down with one blow, versus the sweaty, exhausting brawls of his boyhood.

“Okay,” he says, this time with more respect. He wants to learn.

Training doesn't begin the way he expected it to.

“Before you learn anything else you must have balance,” Joachim says. “Stand.”

There's a section in the training rooms of the temple where the floor is cut away and rows of vertical wooden poles erected in its place. It's possible to walk across their tops like stepping stones, if you're long-legged, but John is doubtful. It's a long way down to the floor below.

“Stand,” Joachim repeats.

John steps onto one of the poles. It's wide enough to plant one foot on, and maybe half of the other, for support. He wavers and balances and waits for further instruction. None comes.

In Gotham he used to do _tui shou_ exercises with Barsad, a slow-moving duel that involved keeping their forearms in contact and trying to unbalance the other. John can do balance. He stands for two hours. His feet and legs ache. He trembles.

“Jump,” Joachim says finally, tapping the next pole over with the tip of a long stick.

John looks, measures the distance, and jumps. His leg won't quite brace him on the landing, and he flings his arms out as he falls, catching himself awkwardly on two different poles.

“Why did you fall?” Joachim asks, after hauling him back onto the solid floor.

“My legs were tired,” John says. His shin hurts. This is a dumb exercise.

“No,” says Joachim. “You didn't anticipate. You were not ready to act. Next time, be ready. Go stand.”

This time he just has to stand. When Joachim tells him to step back onto the floor, John says, “What about jumping?”

“Why were you thinking about jumping when I only asked you to stand?” Joachim says. “You should have been prepared for anything, including inactivity.”

It's official. John hates ninjas.

Joachim sends him away to meditate. John sits on a floor with some other guys, closes his eyes and tries to imagine finding some zen place inside himself that would leave him in a state of constant readiness. But that just falls away to wondering where Barsad and Bane are.

 

*  
By evening, when Barsad still hasn't appeared, John is starting to worry. Word could have reached this sect of the League from Gotham of Barsad's supposed disloyalty. He's not dumb, despite what Barsad might say to the contrary: he knows that Barsad did something to piss off Bane and Talia when the latter was still alive, and who knows how many League members know about it? They might have slain him in the night and done away with his body already. He's thinking on this, still supposed to be meditating, when Jinhai appears at John's side.

“Bane asks for you.”

John scrambles upright, ditching any hope of attaining enlightenment today. “Take me to him.”

Bane is in a room without windows, for warmth. It's long, and he's lying in a bed at the far end, with cloths wrapped around his lower face. He's not far from John's own room, evidenced by the fact that Harvey is tucked against his side. She's been exploring.

“Hi,” John says, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. Bane opens his eyes, and relief fills John to find his eyes clear and untroubled by phantoms. Bane's chest rises and falls for breath, and there's no grating, rasping sound to accompany.

“John,” he says.

“I like your place,” John says, forcing himself to look away. He gestures around them. “It's, uh, big.”

“It has stood here for centuries,” says Bane. John's gotten so used to the robotic voice of the broken mask that Bane's real voice is almost a shock. “It was nearly destroyed by Bruce Wayne.”

“Why?”

“Selfishness,” says Bane. “The belief that his path was the only true path.”

“Are you in pain?” John asks.

“Much less.” Bane lifts his hand and closes it into a fist slowly. Now his fingers curl all the way into his palm. “Soon I will be strong again,” he says, satisfied.

“I'm glad you're feeling better,” John says.

Bane's eyes smile. He raises his hand laboriously to John's face, to smooth his thumb over John's lower lip.

“What an anomaly you are,” he murmurs. “John Blake. Such a puzzle ... such a gift.”

A ninja appears to drip some strong-smelling clear liquid onto the cloths over Bane's nose and mouth. Bane shuts his eyes, inhaling deeply. Maybe he's not as lucid as John thought.

“Barsad's gone,” John says, because he's afraid Bane is about to fall asleep. When Bane opens his eyes, though, he looks more alert than before. John goes on, “He was missing this morning and I haven't seen him all day. I think—”

“So much concern in you for a man who doesn't need it,” Bane observes.

“He might be in trouble.”

“He's left the temple,” Bane says. “To meditate and pray alone.”

“Really?” John says, sitting up. Harvey stirs, yawns, and curls up tighter. “He told you before he left?”

“No. Barsad has always spent time alone on the mountain during his training here. I assure you he will be back when he feels his mind is clear.”

“He could freeze to death,” John says. “That blizzard is still ...”

“Some men find inner peace through suffering.” Bane's eyes narrow, suddenly. “You waste a lot of worry on Barsad.”

 _Someone's got to_ , John wants to say, but he bites his tongue. Bane eyes him.

“He will be back,” he says finally. “He always is.”

“Are they gonna fix your mask?” John asks, changing the subject.

“It's beyond fixing,” Bane says. “They are crafting a new one. Stronger. Then I will be stronger, too.”

“And then what?”

“Then I train you, my songbird,” Bane says, smiling again. “Until all your enemies fear your name.”


	6. Chapter 6

Barsad wakes from a deep meditative state with his eyelids frozen shut. He has to rouse himself very slowly, his muscles frozen in place, the blood tepid and sluggish in his veins. Stiffly, painfully, he uncurls, takes off his gloves and presses his hands to his eyes until he can blink again.

He'd found himself a shallow cave on the mountainside, enough to shelter him from the wind, though not the temperature. Half of him is numb: the other half sings with pain. His hollow stomach aches for food.

He feels—better.

He needs the pain. He needed to know he could still take this. He is strong—a warrior—a servant of the League of Shadows. And in that prison he'd been brought low and made weak.

Barsad has tortured men in the past: often men he didn't even know, for the sake of duty. And he's been tortured, in various colourful ways. He's been starved, whipped, burned, cut on, had bamboo splinters shoved under his nails—and he didn't bat an eye. So what was different about this time? The simple fact that he wasn't expecting it? The knowledge that Bane would not be coming for him? Or perhaps it was the method of torture itself. He'd heard waterboarding described, never performed it himself, never even given it much consideration. He despised it. He despised the simplicity of it, that there was no pain which could be meditated past. That it tricked his brain into believing he was in danger, against all rational thought. He hated the combined effect it had when he'd been confined in the dark and deprived of sleep for a week.

He would die before saying a word about Bane; but what he'd done was almost as bad. He'd asked for it to stop. Only one time, but he'd said it, almost without his brain's knowledge or consent, and the shame consumes him bitterly. It's worse than any pain from the cold.

_Weak._

The pain helps, though. All his exposed skin is raw. It's almost enough to purge the feelings of ignominy that continue to cling to him. He needs to move on—learn from it, grow stronger from it, forget it, and continue on his path. There's still a trace of anger left, flickering in his belly like a flame, but it doesn't burn nearly as hot as it did before.

If he stays here much longer he'll die. He's suffered enough: his mind is clear once more. He can deal with his lingering emotions later. He gets up, stumbling and falling into the snow repeatedly, and makes his unsteady way back to the temple.

It's night by the time he makes it back. The first thing he does, after intercepting a disciple in the halls and ordering a hot bath drawn for him, is go straight to Bane's room to make sure he's all right. Bane is lying awake. He seems unsurprised to see Barsad, who places himself in a chair between Bane's bedside and the fire crackling in the grate.

“You are half dead,” Bane observes. “Do you feel better now?”

Barsad nods, still shivering. Bane grunts, satisfied.

“John was concerned for you.”

“Why?” Barsad says, bemused.

“He didn't understand.”

“He wouldn't,” Barsad says, limiting himself to short sentences. His face hasn't completely regained sensation yet. “Soft.”

Bane grunts again. He stares into the fire contemplatively. His face is wrapped in bandages, and Barsad knows that he must be in less pain, but he won't feel better until Bane has a new mask.

He thaws out gradually. The warmth of the nearby fire is exquisite. Then Bane says, “What was your wife like, Barsad?”

It's an unexpected slap. They don't talk about Barsad's family—ever. That's behind him. He keeps his face impassive.

“She was beautiful,” he says, without tone or emotion. “Gentle. Clever.”

Bane exhales heavily through the bandages, still staring at the fire rather than at Barsad's face. “Do you still miss her?”

If he were any other man Barsad would silence him now, weak and hungry as he is. But it's Bane, and that alone demands an honest answer.

“I don't let myself think about her,” Barsad says.

Bane looks at him now, beseechingly. “How?”

“Discipline,” Barsad says. “Training. Meditation.”

“When did it start to hurt less?”

“When I tracked down her murderers and made them pay,” Barsad says. He wants to stop talking about this. Choking tendrils of his old, black anger are beginning to creep out through the cracks in his walls.

Bane looks back toward the fire. “Bruce Wayne is dead.”

“The police commissioner is not,” Barsad points out.

Bane is silent. Perhaps he doesn't see Gordon as responsible for Talia's death. Perhaps he doesn't want to hurt someone so close to Blake. Perhaps his affection for Blake is making him soft. Barsad will have to keep an eye on that, for his master's sake.

“Look to the future, Bane,” Barsad says, standing up. It's advice that Bane once gave him in the past. “I will start to train Blake tomorrow.”

That rouses Bane from whatever reverie he's in. He blinks and narrows his eyes. “Be gentle with him,” he says. “He is not as strong as he thinks he is.”

“Think of what you're asking,” Barsad says, a sharper edge creeping into his voice. “You wouldn't tell me to be gentle with any other disciple. You wanted him to train here. I intend to train him. He can learn to be strong.”

Bane gives him a cool, appraising look. But then he sags and nods, obviously seeing the sense in Barsad's words.

“Very well,” he mumbles. “Leave.”

Barsad bows his head and obeys. He barely feels fit enough to lift a rifle, but he can already tell that isn't the last decision he'll have to make for Bane in the near future. The weight of responsibility is almost enough to crush him. He just wants to curl up and lick his wounds in solitude.

He straightens his shoulders. If there's one thing Barsad can do, it's persevere. He will look after things until Bane is well again. It's the least he can do.

 

*  
John spends another day training on the poles. He can stand still for a long time, even jump from one to another if he hasn't been standing for too long. But when Joachim puts some shorter wood poles, two-foot tall miniatures of the real thing, on the firm floor, John can't jump from one to another without knocking both over. He keeps practising even after Joachim goes away. Then one of the young guys from the day before appears, respectfully requesting a rematch, and John obliges. He wins again, and afterward they compare techniques through a considerable language barrier. This place isn't so bad, John decides when he goes to bed that night. He expected something worse, if Bruce tried to destroy it.

He goes back to the poles the next morning, watched by Joachim while other disciples train all around them. His concentration is shattered when he notices Joachim talking to Barsad, who's entered the room silently.

“Hey!” John says, startled.

“Focus,” Barsad snaps, but too late: John's already bounded off the poles to greet him. He falters guiltily.

Joachim shakes his head. “All yours,” he says to Barsad, and leaves.

“Where'd you go, man?” John demands in a low voice. “I thought these guys had slit your throat in the night or something. A note would've been nice.”

“I needed to think,” Barsad says. And he does look better, more like his old self—at ease, relaxed but ready to act at a moment's notice, rather than the tense, perpetually hunted look he'd sported before. He turns to Jinhai, who's walking past, and gives him a short command. Jinhai bows and leaves.

John goes back on the poles until Jinhai returns, carrying breakfast on a tray for them both. Barsad thanks him, and he and John leave the training room for a more private setting.

“I didn't know he was some kind of ninja manservant,” John says, falling on his porridge eagerly once they're seated.

“He isn't,” Barsad says. “He knows I am stronger than him. That is why I wanted to talk to you before we continued your training. You should know the rules here. Has anyone tried to give you orders?”

John shakes his head. “Just Joachim,” he says.

“If a man who can defeat you in combat tells you to do something, do it,” Barsad says. He adds, “But I think you'll be overlooked for the most part. We have younger boys to perform most of the chores.”

“Good to know,” John says. He doesn't know if he could just buckle under someone like that.

Barsad smiles knowingly. Then his eyes turn cold. “Respect your superiors, but if any man asks you to go to his bed, you refuse. Is that clear?”

“I—” John almost fumbles the knife he's using to butter his bread. “They, uh, they do that here?”

“You said it yourself,” Barsad says impassively. “There's no one else to fuck but the goats.”

John struggles to come up with an appropriate response. “And this is ... a common thing?”

Barsad shrugs one shoulder and bites into his bread. “Common enough among brothers in arms. Sometimes a skilled man will take an untrained boy under his tutelage, share his knowledge and his bed in exchange for a body to fuck at night.”

John's not exactly sure why he blurts out, “Did anyone do that to you?”

Barsad scowls. “Perhaps you should spend less time thinking about sex and more time on productive matters,” he says bitingly. John falls silent. Barsad continues, “Apparently you are desirable. A man may approach you, but he won't force you if you refuse him.”

He goes back to eating. John says, “What do I say?”

Barsad shrugs again. “Say you have already submitted to me.”

“Yeah, right,” John snorts.

“No one will question that. Or say you don't lie with men. Whatever you do, don't say that you already lie with Bane.”

“I don't,” John says, maybe louder than he intends to.

“Perhaps you should,” Barsad says, glancing up at him from hooded eyes.

This is probably the weirdest conversation John has ever had with him. Barsad's never approved of his relationship with Bane, John's almost sure of that. But he's not the type to crack jokes about it, either.

John settles for saying, “What?”

“Go back to his bed. It would be good for him.”

“In what way would it be good for him?”

“He's preoccupied,” Barsad says, looking away. “He needs a distraction. He needs these men to know that he is as fierce and strong as he used to be. They shouldn't know that you are sleeping with him—Bane has always been above sexual relations—but I think it would make him feel better. It would ... help him.”

John gets it, suddenly, and he flushes with anger. “I'm not throwing myself at a guy who's not even interested because he's still mourning his dead girlfriend,” he snaps. “I'm—Christ, Barsad, I'm not even gay.”

“You do a very good impression.”

John's not sure whether he wants to laugh or punch him. “You seriously need to get laid,” he says. “Maybe you should go to Bane's bed. When's the last time you had an orgasm?”

“Seven years and eight months ago,” Barsad says.

John studies him. It takes him a minute to decide Barsad is actually, probably joking, and he grins. Barsad returns a ghost of a smile, softening.

“There is only one person Bane feels sure about right now, John, and that person is you. He's being cared for by men who watched Talia's father banish him from this temple into the cold. None of his followers from Gotham have made it here and he's still questioning my loyalties, even though I would die for him. But you, for some reason—you, he cares about.” Barsad frowns down at his bowl of porridge. “You and I both know it isn't just his pain that's killing him. He has almost no will to go on without her. But you give him strength. I couldn't have brought him here if you hadn't come with us. The men can't know how affected he is by her death. Go to him, comfort him, make him strong—in whatever way you choose.”

“Sure,” John says, relaxed now that they're not talking about sex. “I mean, I've been doing that—hanging out with him and stuff. He seems okay.”

“Good.” Barsad sets the tray aside. “That is what I wanted to say. Are you ready? Let's start.”

Barsad's idea of training is different. He ditches the poles and wants to spar first, a bit of familiarity in this unfamiliar land. John feels himself relaxing into the old stretches and exercises, though he's not quite prepared for the ferocity with which Barsad attacks him. This isn't rooftop exercise for the sake of fresh air and fitness: this is the real thing, and Barsad isn't holding back. When John is sitting on the floor, nursing various bruises, Barsad pulls him to his feet and hands him a bamboo pole. The pole is John's introduction to weapons training. He'd have never guessed that being cracked across the skull or the shins with a bamboo stick could hurt so much.

He gets in a few good hits of his own, though. Some of the younger men even stop what they're doing to watch them. At the end of the day John could swear Barsad is actually a little pleased, in his stoic emotionless way, when John hasn't collapsed or embarrassed himself in front of Barsad's ninja buddies. They eat with Joachim and the other men, and then John wants nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep until Jinhai rouses him before dawn. But he has to see how Bane is doing first.

When he gets to Bane's room, Bane is pacing stiffly and slowly up and down the length of the room, keeping a hand at his face to make sure the cloths are still wrapped tight. John sits on the bed, where Harvey is sleeping, and tells him all about what he learned. When he's finished, Bane stops and stands in front of him.

“Take off your shirt,” he says.

“Uh,” John replies.

Bane continues to stare at him. John decides to oblige him. He's been given clothing in some soft, dark material, and he pushes the tunic off his shoulders and peels off an undershirt. Bane sits on the bed at his side. His fingertips brush over the bruises mottling John's ribcage, trailing gently from one to another.

He pulls his hand away and growls suddenly.

“He shouldn't be so hard on you.”

“Joachim said it's the best way to learn,” John says. “You don't make a mistake twice if it hurts enough the first time. Something like that.”

“Barsad should know better,” Bane says sharply. “You've barely begun your training.”

“You didn't say anything when he was kicking my ass back in Gotham!” John argues.

“This is different,” Bane says, breathing hard. He gets to his feet again, painfully. “If he hurts you—”

“Is this how you protected Talia?” John asks, getting up as well. “Because I'm not your replacement for her, Bane—”

He knows even as he says it that he's losing his temper and needs to shut up. It's too late. Bane rounds on him with a snarl, actually making John flinch.

“You could never replace Talia,” he grates out.

John stares at him, knowing that if he stays calm and keeps his mouth shut, Bane will relax. It works. Bane relaxes gradually and turns away.

“I failed her,” he growls. “I didn't protect her. I lost her.”

“You're not going to lose me if I get a little scuffed up while I'm training,” John points out carefully. “It's okay. You wanted this, remember? It's going to make me stronger.”

Bane stares, longingly, in the direction of the main temple. “It should be me training you.”

But already he's tiring. He sits down on the bed, and John goes to fetch the vial with the clear liquid compound and the dropper to administer Bane's chemicals.

“Soon,” he says, directing Bane to lie down. “When your new mask is ready. Just rest for now.”

Bane falls asleep with Harvey curled at his side. Even though his body aches and he yearns for his own bed, John lingers for a minute, petting the cat. He wonders if Bane will ever really be able to let go of Talia.


	7. Chapter 7

A week passes. Then another. John is settling into a routine.

In the morning he practises on the poles, or whatever else Joachim thinks will help him find his zen place, and works out. He runs laps in the freezing-cold courtyard, he starts lifting increasingly heavy weights. He's in good company with the other disciples, who are mostly younger than him but are also at the beginning of their training. John even has a slight advantage, being from the police force.

After lunch Barsad shows up from wherever and wants to fight. He doesn't seem to care if John finds his zen place or not—maybe he thinks John incapable of sitting still long enough to be zen—so he goes straight to stretching, then sparring, then weapons training. (Weapons training includes, of all things, archery lessons. John's incredulity at the practicality of using a bow and arrows in Gotham keeps fighting with the thought of being able to accurately hit a target with a fucking bow and arrow.)

At night John limps to Bane's room and hangs out for a while. Sometimes when he comes in, Bane is lying supine on the bed, and he just listens to John without speaking much. Other times, John finds him walking around the room or exercising. He needs the chemicals administered to the cloths on his face frequently, but he's doing much better like this, growing stronger by the day. He wants to know everything John is learning, every detail.

John is showing him a sort of arm thrust that Barsad taught him earlier that day when he has to lower his arm with a wince. He's sure he'll get tougher given a little more time, but Barsad doesn't give him any time to heal from his injuries before giving him new ones. Every muscle hurts, but right now it's a knot in his shoulder. Bane notices.

“You are in pain.” He stops pacing and studies John.

“I'm fine,” John says. “I just need to sleep it off.”

Bane rumbles and moves closer. “Lie down on the bed.”

John doesn't even think about disobeying. He just lies down and rolls onto his stomach. He grunts when, a moment later, Bane slings a knee over his hip and settles on top of him. He lies still while Bane peels off his shirt and touches his blunt fingers to John's shoulder.

“Here?” he says, and without waiting for a response, he digs his fingers in. He finds the knot of muscle unerringly, and John groans in pain, clenching his teeth and arching against Bane. Then Bane does this sort of sweeping motion with his fingers, digging and _pushing_ , and—the tension in John's shoulder miraculously unlocks and begins to trickle away. Bane does the same thing for a few minutes, petting and massaging John's shoulder back to rights, and his touch makes John melt into the sheets.

“How'd you ...?” he starts sleepily.

“Talia used to do this for me.” Bane moves away from the shoulder, and gets to work on John's neck. John gasps and shivers and melts all over again. It makes sense, that somebody with as much knowledge in causing pain to the human body would also know how to inflict the most pleasure. What surprises John is the restraint. Bane's hands are gentle, not squeezing or pushing too hard, just the right amount of pressure. He moves to John's other shoulder carefully, as if afraid of doing damage.

“Soft,” Bane murmurs, apparently to himself. “I never noticed how soft you are.”

He gives John a full back massage, occasionally sweeping his palms up and down John's sides, touching with interest. When he's reached John's lower back, and John is a puddle in the sheets, Bane rolls him over onto his back and lays a hand on John's stomach. His eyes rove over John's shirtless chest, drinking in the sight.

When John notices this, he's suddenly wide awake again. He hasn't seen interest like that in Bane's eyes since ... well, it's been a while. His heart beats faster. Barsad would tell him to go for it, to pull Bane down on top of him and thoroughly distract him.

But John can't. And it's not just because the lube is all the way down the hall in the bag in his room. It's the way Bane's eyebrows twitch together a second later, and how quickly he pulls his hand away.

“Come to me when you are sore.” He's blunt and dismissive, moving aside and tossing John's shirt at him. “You will grow stronger soon.”

“Thanks.” John sits up and pulls his shirt on. After that, massages become a welcome daily ritual.

 

***  
Barsad accompanies Bane when he first begins to go for walks through the temple. Bane is stronger every day, but Barsad knows how he dislikes his dependence on the vial of chemicals in his pocket. A new mask will free him from this crutch, restoring his mettle as well as his strength.

He wants to see John training. Barsad takes him up on a catwalk overlooking the biggest training room, where John, wielding a bamboo pole, is sparring with another disciple. They watch silently. Barsad winces inwardly, seeing only John's blunders, the way he advertises where he intends to strike; but then, lightning-quick, John sweeps his opponent's footing out from under him, and Bane exhales softly at Barsad's side.

“Such ferocity,” Bane murmurs. Barsad looks at him quickly, sees the way Bane's eyes are gleaming with fondness and admiration. He looks back down at John, who is laughing, extending a hand to his partner.

“As I've said,” Barsad says, impassive, “he is doing well.”

John takes another opponent. The next fight begins without fanfare. This time Barsad tries to see him through Bane's eyes. Yes, John is fast. He's always been fast, but now his mind can keep up with his actions, letting him plan instead of lashing out reflexively. He's determined, single-minded, though he weaves artfully around the obstacles in the room, proving how aware he is of his surroundings. Barsad feels a small glimmer of pride at that. He couldn't understand, at first, why Bane would want to train this petulant child in their ways, but perhaps Bane's motivation wasn't simple desire. Perhaps he saw something in John, the potential to shape him into a powerful weapon for the League.

“You have trained him well,” Bane says.

Normally Barsad would be warmed at this praise, but he isn't certain where it comes from. Does Bane truly mean to compliment him? Or is he really blind to John's faults, seeing only the progress he's made and none of the lingering sloppiness?

Barsad is balancing on a knife edge. As long as Bane is this interested in John's training, he isn't dwelling on Talia's death. But if Bane becomes too interested ... if others take notice... It isn't rare for a training master to take an accolyte to his bed, but that is not the image Bane has ever presented to the League, nor should it be. They respect him because he is indomitable, because, like Ra's al Ghul, he is something more than man. Any fondness he shows for the fiery police officer is weakness.

This is when Bane says the worst possible thing, flexing his fingers hungrily. “As soon as my mask is finished, I will take over John's training myself.”

Barsad keeps a firm handle on his consternation, so that his expression doesn't flicker. That is a bad idea. The worst idea.

“I think he may do better to continue training with me,” he says, slowly.

Bane growls through the bandages. “Explain.”

“I have been working with him since Gotham. I know which areas he needs to improve in and where his strengths lie. And I am a better match for him, physically.” Which is no point at all: Bane would go too easy on him.

Bane rumbles again, a sound Barsad can't decipher. For a minute they just watch John.

“He is worried about you,” Bane says at last, very low. He turns his head to gaze at Barsad, who determinedly keeps his eyes on John and his expression blank. “He tells me his concerns each night.”

“What concerns?”

“He thinks you aren't sleeping. That you work yourself too hard, and don't eat enough.”

Barsad forces a chuckle to mask his annoyance. “Blake is not my keeper.”

“No,” Bane says. He pauses, still staring at Barsad. “I know that you were tortured in that prison.”

Barsad's hands, folded behind his back, tighten into fists. “I didn't talk.”

“I know that, as well. I know you are more loyal to me than anyone.”

It's as if Barsad can breathe again, for the first time in months, when he never even realized he was holding his breath.

“I need you at my side,” Bane continues. “And I need you at your best.”

“I am. Always.” Never mind that he hasn't slept in three days. He hasn't had a full night's sleep in years. Never mind that he can't submerge his head fully when he's bathing. He can _fight._

Bane rests a hand on his shoulder. Then it slides away and he leaves, with a last look back at John, and Barsad wonders where Bane's concern comes from.

 

*  
When the mask is complete, Barsad is allowed to stay in Bane's room to help him put it on, the only one granted this privilege. In the past, it would have been Talia.

The new mask looks much like the old one, bristling with tubes like bared fangs, like the legs of a gleaming spider. It's leather, this time, instead of plastic—the edges won't cut into Bane's face quite as much. There's a second one, a spare, which Barsad carefully locks away in a chest while Bane sits on the bed and touches his face, relearning the feel of the straps and tubes.

“This is good work,” he says finally, in the voice that Barsad has always known: metallic, reverberant, sharp and clear as a blade.

Barsad nods his agreement, ignoring the kitten that arches itself against his leg. Bane stands, and all at once he seems even bigger to Barsad. He is, once more, the leader Barsad has followed to hell and back. His hands flex restlessly.

“Come,” he says mildly.

Barsad follows him to the large training room, where Bane stands off to the side, hands clasping the straps of his utility harness—a sure sign that he's feeling good and powerful again. Barsad stands next to him, hands clasped behind his back. They watch, and slowly the disciples begin to notice them there. Joachim slips out quietly, no doubt gathering some of the other men: within a minute, they're trickling in.

John appears, punches Barsad on the shoulder and says, “Where the hell've you been, man, I was—” He cuts himself off, eyes widening. “Bane.”

The corners of Bane's eyes crinkle. “John.”

John's mouth falls open slightly, taking in the new mask. “Wow,” he says. “You look ... scary.”

Even Barsad can't tell if Bane is pleased or displeased by this statement.

Joachim returns. Most of the men in the temple are now gathered in the training room. Bane lets go of his harness and strides forward, arms swinging loosely at his sides. He doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't have to.

“You have all heard, by now, of our defeat in Gotham,” he says, “as well as the loss of Talia al Ghul.”

His words are met with silence. He doesn't continue right away, and Barsad wills him silently, desperately, not to falter.

Bane shakes his head, raises it and looks around at his men.

“That was the result of an old mistake, returned to haunt us,” he says coldly. “That mistake has been eradicated.”

There are approving murmurs. John nudges Barsad impatiently. “What's he saying?”

Barsad notes, belatedly, that Bane isn't speaking in English. “He is telling them Bruce Wayne is dead.”

John grunts, leaning back.

“... We have survived,” Bane is continuing. “We will learn from this. We will grow stronger. We, who are masters of death, will show the world that we are far from beaten.” He raises a clenched fist. “We will rise up! And we will destroy any who stand in the way of true justice!”

The men roar and cheer. Bane continues, the rise and fall of his voice entrancing them all utterly—except for Barsad. He, who knows Bane better than any lover, who has heard more of these speeches than any man here, can hear it in Bane's voice: his heart isn't in this one. John fidgets, asking occasionally for a translation, but Barsad ignores him. He focuses on Bane, trying his hardest to channel strength to his master.

Bane winds down, soon enough, and starts to pace back and forth.

“I have been confined to bed these past weeks,” he says, switching to English. “But I will show you that I am prepared to lead you, as Ra's al Ghul and his daughter did before. If any man here thinks he is a match for me, let him step forward now.”

No one budges.

“What's he doing?” John hisses. Barsad hushes him sharply. He is not at all surprised. The hierarchy in the League is based very much on physical skill. It is natural that Bane would want to prove himself after being unwell.

Bane stops pacing and turns to face them, his eyes shrewd.

“No?” he says. His tone turns cajoling. “Not you, Joachim? ...How about you, Akun?”

He points out a tall, dark-skinned man. The men around Akun step back. He comes forward, untying his scarf and removing his vest. A friend takes both of these, and Akun steps into the arena.

It's not a very long fight. Bane is too fast for him, too vicious. Akun is strong, and he manages to land multiple blows, which is more than most men can do. But analgesic is coursing through Bane's body, and he shrugs off each blow like the sting of a gnat. Sparring seems to have a restorative effect on him, too. His eyes gleam brighter, his movements become smoother and surer. Before long he brings his fist down on Akun's shoulder, a crushing blow that drops Akun to the floor and leaves him there.

Bane selects his next opponent as well, another hulking man who's close to him in size. This fight is even shorter: Bane has warmed up, and he doesn't hesitate to go in for the kill. The man taps out as soon as Bane gets him on the ground.

Everyone is relaxing now, laughing at Bane's hapless victim and slapping him good-naturedly on the shoulder when he picks himself back up. Seeing their leader with their own eyes, watching him prove his strength, is bolstering everyone's confidence. Only John is antsy at Barsad's side. He starts to move forward, to get to Bane, when Bane abruptly turns to face them, still smiling with his eyes.

“How about you, Barsad?” he asks.

The men go quiet, one by one. Barsad is rigid. Surprise ripples through him, never reaching the surface. He thinks of the conversation they'd had. _Is this a test?_ he wonders distantly. _Does he question my strength?_

He moves forward without speaking. Bane clasps his hand briefly. Everybody moves back to give them space, and just before the fight starts, Barsad notices John hovering nervously close by.

Bane comes at him with nothing held back. Barsad only just manages to swivel aside. Bane is faster than he'd expected. He's ramping it up now; he knows speed is the one edge Barsad has on him, and he intends to give him a run for his money. He follows up almost immediately, and this time Barsad feels the shock of air from Bane's fist whistling past his ear.

Now Barsad's ire is on the rise. He will not let Bane flatten him the way he did his other two opponents. He clears his mind of everything but his surroundings and Bane in front of him. When Bane comes at him again, Barsad grabs his arm and pivots. Bane anticipates this, and grabs him too; but before he can pull Barsad close, Barsad headbutts him as hard as he can and shakes loose. He's managed to connect with the spot between Bane's eyes: Bane gives a muffled snarl under his mask. Barsad takes immediate advantage of his watering eyes to hit Bane in the face, twice, hard. He feels his knuckles split open on the mask, glimpses a stream of scarlet blood flowing from his hand, and then has to spin away so that Bane can't grab his arm.

He's found his edge and he presses it ruthlessly. He numbs himself to the pain in his hands and takes every opportunity he can to connect with the mask. It's Bane's only weakness, and they need to know it can stand up to abuse. Dimly, over the roaring blood in his ears, he can hear John making a little choked-off sound every time he lands a blow. Bane's eyes glint furiously as he pursues Barsad. He's fast, shockingly so, but it just means Barsad has to be fast, too; faster than he's ever been. Every shred of energy is devoted to anticipating where Bane is going to be, moving around him, weaving and ducking and lunging and never, ever allowing himself to overbalance.

He knows that if Bane hits him, a single blow could end this fight. And it happens. He sees where Bane is going and adjusts; Bane sees him adjust and changes his own path so fluidly that Barsad can't correct in time. Bane's fist hits him in the side of the head. There's a cracking sound, followed by white noise. He can't see or hear. He moves away, out of reach, but the floor is sliding under him and he knows he's lost his balance.

He retreats. He needs to recover before he can attack. His outstretched hand grazes and then closes around something hard and sturdy: a rattan stick in a stand.

He pulls it out and centers his weight. His vision clears. He can see Bane in front of him, breathing hard. In one flowing motion, Barsad swings the rattan stick and hurtles forward with a shout.

Just as smoothly, Bane steps aside, plucks the stick from his hold, spins around and cracks the rattan stick across Barsad's back. He stumbles and falls forward.

Bane drops on him. His arm is around Barsad's neck in an instant. Barsad thrashes furiously, trying to dislodge him; he bucks his hips, twists, tries to drive an elbow into Bane's midsection. He succeeds, but this is a mistake; Bane catches his arm neatly and twists it brutally up his back. He rumbles, pinning Barsad down flat, and then his arm flexes and he starts to apply pressure.

It's not a blood choke, intended to cause unconsciousness. If Barsad were in a different position he might be able to appreciate the artful precision of it. It seals off the flow of air, so that Barsad is gasping noiselessly in seconds. He should tap out. Part of him knows that. But when he can't catch his breath—when his vision is obscured by Bane's bulk on top of him and his own sweat-damp strands of hair—he panics.

He struggles. It's frantic, mindless, no technique to it whatsoever; he's an animal in a trap, prepared to chew its own leg off. He thrashes and chokes for breath, knowing that he'll vomit and unconsciousness will not be far behind, and he can't—he can't—

“Bane, stop!” he hears John shout, from very far off.

For just a second this breaks through Barsad's confusion. He reaches out weakly and slaps the floor twice.

The pressure eases at once. Slowly, Bane picks himself up. Barsad slumps to the floor in defeat, gasping raggedly, feeling as though his ribcage has been crushed by a battering ram. Then Bane takes him by the arm and hauls him to his feet.

“Well done, brother,” he says, relaxed and easy. He pulls Barsad into a one-armed embrace. From a great distance Barsad can hear the other men cheering. He lets Bane support him, still gasping, unsteady on his feet. Bane pulls back, smiling. “Nearly my equal, as always.”

Barsad just nods, not trusting himself to speak yet. He can't believe he'd lost his head like that. He never loses it. Shame and embarrassment wash over him—how many of them had noticed his panic, if John was able to?

Then the other men are approaching, the older ones thumping Barsad on the shoulder, younger regarding him and Bane with respect and awe. John is with them, casting Barsad one quick, worried glance, before he pulls Bane aside and starts fussing over the mask, making sure Barsad didn't damage it. Bane submits to John's attention contentedly, like a preening feline.

“You are bleeding,” Joachim says, coming up beside Barsad just as he feels the blood beginning to seep down his neck. He reaches up and wipes away a trickle of blood from his ear. His head is still ringing. “That was well fought,” Joachim says, his face unreadable.

“I need to meditate,” Barsad says, panting as he unknots the scarf from around his neck.

“Barsad, your hands—”

He's already on his way out of the room, unnoticed by either Bane or John.


	8. Chapter 8

In honour of Bane's return to full strength, the men call off training for the rest of the day and prepare food in the main training room. It's as close to a party as serious-faced ninjas can get. The general air is jovial and John finds himself relaxing. He sticks close to Bane at first—he hasn't made a lot of friends and most of them aren't speaking English—but they get separated soon enough. Men flock around Bane, seemingly just to bask in his presence, and John's surprised to find himself an object of interest too. Everyone is curious about the boy Barsad has taken on as a disciple. Between their broken English and John's limited grasp of their language, they manage to reach a rough understanding.

These guys really aren't so bad. They're devoted to Bane, there's no doubt about that. The two men Bane beat before Barsad are given preferential treatment by the others—even though they lost, they were honoured enough to be considered worthy opponents. The second one, a big guy called Haru, makes his way over to John's group, and pulls John aside when there's a lull in conversation. John shakes him off, irritable at this manhandling.

“I have watched you train,” Haru says in a deep, steady voice. “You have great potential.”

“Thanks,” John says, dismissive.

“I could teach you.”

“No thanks.”

Haru gazes at him. He seems to be waiting for John to realize that he's talking to a man whom Bane himself deemed worthy of fighting. John stares back stubbornly.

Haru says something else, in his own tongue; a question. John stares. Haru repeats himself, slower, and this time John catches Barsad's name and the word “ninja”.

“Yes,” John says firmly. “Barsad's my ... ninja teacher.”

Haru makes a sound of understanding. He nods, respectfully, and goes back to his friends.

Where is Barsad, anyway? John's been looking out for him, but he can't recall seeing Barsad since Bane wiped the floor with him. He looks around for Bane, figuring Barsad will be lurking at his side as usual, but Bane's not around, either. Frowning, John leaves the room. He ends up poking through a few different rooms before a noise, a loud, repeated smacking sound, draws his attention.

He finds Barsad in a small training room. He's hitting a hanging weight, a punching bag, every few seconds, and his knuckles smack into the material wetly. The bag creaks and sways from the ceiling. The only other sound to be heard is Barsad's short, clipped puffs of breath.

“Hi,” John says.

Barsad ignores him. Circling around him, John sees that his hands are only loosely wrapped. Blood has soaked through the wrappings on his knuckles and is slowly staining the punching bag, a blossoming pink splotch.

John comes back around to his front.

“Hey, maybe you should stop,” he suggests. Barsad's eyes are cold and remote, fixed on a point far beyond John and the punching bag. “Jesus, Barsad. At least let me tape your hands—”

But Barsad doesn't stop hitting the bag when John reaches, and John is afraid to get in the way of his fists. He backs off.

“Fine,” he says. “Come hang out with us when you're done.”

Bane is back by the time John returns to the festivities. His eyes crinkle with fondness when he lays eyes on John, and he leaves Joachim's side to join John.

He lowers his head. “What is this I hear about you sharing Barsad's bed behind my back?”

“What?” John jerks his head away from Bane's. Then he realizes that Bane looks more amused than annoyed. “Who the hell said that?”

“Haru asked you if Barsad is your _nenja_. You said yes.”

“That's not what he asked!” John splutters. “I didn't—what's that even mean?”

“ _Nenja_ is a word for a mentor, a role model,” Bane says. “Someone who would take a younger man, a _wakashu_ , and teach him martial skills. The _wakashu_ is his pupil as well as a submissive lover.”

John's face turns uncomfortably hot. Now they all think he lets Barsad fuck him. Great.

Bane chuckles.

“They were curious because Barsad does not take pupils normally. They think he must desire you.”

“He doesn't,” John says.

“I know,” Bane says calmly. “Barsad does not take lovers, either.”

He's calm enough about it now that he's on his feet, back to fighting form, but John recalls the jealous look in his eyes when John had talked about Barsad previously. Maybe Bane feels especially good about his standing in John's eyes after kicking Barsad's ass in front of everyone. Annoyed by that thought, John shoves his arm, not even budging him.

“Why'd you beat on him like that, anyway?” he demands.

Bane is unruffled. “I needed to test my strength. Barsad is the best fighter.”

“You totally emasculated him in front of everyone.”

“There is no shame in losing to a stronger opponent.”

John stares. Did Bane really not see or even feel the way Barsad had panicked underneath him as soon as he was unable to breathe? “He's been thinking he's weak ever since we left Gotham. You're not helping.”

“Enough.” Bane presses two fingers to John's mouth. His tone and his eyes say that he's lost his patience now: he doesn't want to talk about Barsad. “I want to show you something. Come.”

John huffs, but he goes with Bane. They slip out of the room together and walk through the empty halls. For a while, as soon as the sounds from the training room fade, the only thing to be heard is the steady wheeze of Bane's breathing. It's a sound John didn't realize he missed. They go nearly to the other side of the temple; then there's a wide, empty hallway with only a few doors. Bane leads John to the most ornate of these.

Beyond the door is a large room, far more furnished than John's little bedroom. There's a fireplace with a carved mantel, bookshelves against the walls, a huge wooden desk with a chair, and a massive bed with a canopy. There are woven rugs on the floor. John steps inside and looks around. Everything is muted and warm, nothing seems out of place—except, John notices, a ragged old teddy bear sitting on top of a bookshelf in the corner.

“This was Talia's room,” Bane says softly. He closes the door and starts lighting lamps around the room. “Now it is mine.”

“It's really nice.” John is scanning book titles. Most of them are in other languages. He lifts his gaze back to the teddy bear, reaching on tiptoe for it. “This was Talia's, too?”

“Yes.” Bane reaches past him easily and picks the bear up. One of its eyes is about to fall off and its fur is patchy and worn, but Bane thumbs its tattered ear affectionately. “Before he was Talia's, he was mine.”

“But when you were a kid ...”

“I lived in the pit, yes.” Bane's eyes meet John's. “He was my only friend during my childhood. I gave him to Talia to keep her safe.”

John fails to see how this ragged old bear could keep anything safe. He gives Bane a little push toward the bed. “Sit down. I want to take a look at you.”

Bane submits to an examination, placing the teddy bear on the bed at his side and sitting docilely. John unstraps his utility harness for him, then gets Bane to take his shirt off so that he can look over each healing wound. Most are little more than scar tissue by now, but John examines each one anyway. It hadn't escaped him that Barsad had targeted each of these tender spots in the fight. Once he's satisfied that none of the wounds will reopen, he kneels on the bed to take a closer look at the mask. He uses his sleeve to wipe away smears of Barsad's blood.

“Not even dented,” he reports.

“Good.” Bane sounds pleased. “This is a strong mask.”

“You feel okay? Not sore?”

“I feel excellent.”

He touches his fingers to John's lips again. John sighs, all the tension suddenly leaking out of him, and takes a seat on the bed at Bane's side.

“I want you to share this room with me,” Bane says. For a second John thinks he's misheard.

“You ... what?”

“I brought your things already.” Bane points. John's bag is on the floor. “You will stay here and share my bed.”

John's face flushes hot. “Oh,” he says. “You mean that kind of ... sharing.”

“Yes,” Bane says, amused.

“I—” He can't believe he didn't see this coming. Bane has been dependent on him, weak, but now he's powerful again; and the desire burns as fierce in his eyes as it ever did in Gotham. John flounders. “I don't know—”

Bane's face darkens, abruptly.

“I know you, John,” he growls. “I know that you have lain in bed at night and touched yourself to thoughts of me, regardless of your preferences. You told me in Gotham that your affection was no ruse. Lie to yourself if you must; but I know you. I know your heart. You are just as alone here as I am.” He glares, then looks aside. The sharpness leaves his tone. “But if you have doubts, go to your own room now. Only ... know that I have missed you.”

“I know—I want to share,” John says, shocking himself by speaking the truth. It's just that growing up an orphan, living a life full of hardships and uncertainties, there's just something very certain and reassuring about sleeping in bed next to Bane, who would stop a whole army from getting at John if he had to. John's usually the protector, the worrier, looking out for everyone. It's nice to be looked out for. When he really thinks about it—he's missed Bane, too.

There's just that other aspect of sharing Bane's bed. He fumbles for the right words.

“I just think it might not look right, if you and I are—”

“Leave, then,” Bane says coldly, on his feet now and affecting carelessness. John jumps to his feet, too.

“Let me finish, damnit,” he says angrily. Bane turns to him with a raised eyebrow. “I want to stay here with you. We can even fuck if you feel strong enough for that. But what are the League guys gonna think? You've never done this with anyone before, Bane. What if they think—I dunno—that you've changed? That you're softer now, maybe?”

Dead silence, except for Bane's rasping breaths. John can't read his expression. For a second he's afraid Bane might hit him.

Then Bane's eyes narrow and he says, “Where do these fears come from?”

The way he says it, John's pretty sure he already knows. So he doesn't mind saying, “Barsad.”

“Ah. Of course.”

“He's looking out for you,” John says. “We both are. You run the League now. Someone could use me to get at you.”

“They wouldn't dare.”

“Then maybe they'll just judge you, Bane!” John says in exasperation. “Just think, okay?”

To his relief, Bane does seem to be thinking about it.

“They think Barsad is your _nenja_ ...” he murmurs. His eyes flicker around the room. Then he straightens decisively. “Very well. Barsad will move to the room across from this one. You will share my bed, and each morning, when you leave, everyone will see you coming from the hall where Barsad's room is.”

Relief enters John in a trickle. “Yeah. Yeah, that works.”

Bane draws himself up, pleased. “We will tell Barsad now,” he says, moving for the door.

“No.” John catches his sleeve. “Just ... leave him alone for a bit. I think he needs to ... meditate, or whatever he does.”

Bane seems surprised. He rumbles. “Very well.”

He sits on the bed again, and pulls John down to sit beside him.

“Did you enjoy watching the fights?” he asks, cupping John's chin in one massive hand, stroking with his thumb.

“I thought you were pushing yourself a little too hard, given that you only just got the new mask,” John says. He can tell Bane is dissatisfied with that answer, and can't hide a smile. “But yeah. It was ... good.”

“Good?”

John reaches out to touch his bare chest. Then he trails his fingers down, down to the clasp of Bane's belt. “Yeah.”

He feels reckless right now. He's pissed off at Barsad for isolating himself, pissed off because he's not allowed to openly be with Bane, here of all places. And at the same time he feels reassured, strangely relieved, because Bane still wants him. Bane is masked and strong again, confident in himself, and John suddenly has the thought—that those fights were Bane's way of showing off to him, _for_ him, proving to John that he is a strong, worthy mate once more. It's so dumb and endearing at the same time that John wrinkles his nose as he smiles. Bane's eyes are alight with fondness. He brushes his fingers over John's mouth, and John drags his tongue over the pads of Bane's fingers, tasting dust and sweat.

“Little bird,” Bane rumbles, two octaves lower than usual.

Then he hauls John fully onto the bed, dumps him in a heap, and starts to drag his clothes off. John helps him, raising his arms so his tunic and undershirt can come off, wriggling his hips so Bane can pull off his pants and socks. There's something different about this—they're not in Gotham, they don't have the weight of the bomb hanging over their heads. There's nothing compelling him to do this, except that a significant part of him wants to. And he's not worrying about what Gordon or Bruce would think of him. He's not even worried about what he'll think of himself.

It's all different. And it's exciting.

Bane rolls him onto his back, brackets John's naked body with his hands and knees, and slides his fingers into John's mouth again. John sucks, feeling a little foolish but mostly lost in the reverence in Bane's eyes. He arches his back, trying to find friction for his suddenly-aching cock. Bane's chuckle is a deep vibration in his chest.

“Squirming already.”

He slides his fingers past John's lips and brings his hand to John's cock, squeezing and gentling in the best ways. John sighs, pushes his hips up into Bane's fist, unable to care that he's already coming undone. The truth is that, yes, he's masturbated furiously to the memories of fucking Bane back home, but since getting here, he's had no time or energy for that. It takes very little time to get him panting and squirming under Bane, who leans down and presses the grate of his mask to John's forehead gently, ruffling strands of John's hair with each exhale.

“How I have missed you,” he murmurs adoringly, and John doesn't say that they've been together for all these past weeks. He knows exactly what Bane means.

“Missed you too,” he gasps out.

Bane lets go of his dick to run his hand over John's thigh, his stomach, his chest, rubbing and petting until John is cursing underneath him, straining frantically to bring himself into contact with Bane's thigh, anything. Finally noticing his impatience, Bane chuckles again and takes him in hand, with quick, sure strokes. In no time at all John is gasping, spilling over Bane's fist.

Afterward he feels lazy and content, prepared to just lie here for the rest of the day with Bane. Bane wipes off his hand, then lies down and gathers John into his arms. He presses the grille to John's forehead again, and John could almost swear that this must be Bane's version of a kiss. Bane makes sure that John is completely enfolded before he speaks.

“You will continue to train with Barsad,” he says, “and on the nights that I must leave you, you will share his bed for real. But if he touches you, John ... even once ... you will tell me, and I will make it so that he never touches you again. I promise you that.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a part I posted a while back to the [kinkmeme thread](http://tdkr-kink.livejournal.com/2798.html?thread=2213614#t2213614). I was originally waiting to finish the next chapter so I could post them both here together, but that hasn't happened yet. So, if you haven't seen this update, here it is - my way of promising that this story has not been abandoned, even if a new update is still in the works!

When Barsad returns to his room, he extinguishes every light before closing the door. He finds his way to the bed by memory and sits down cross-legged.

The dark presses in on him. Every sense is muffled. He closes his eyes.

He is strong.

The silence roars in his ears.

He is better than this.

The dark is a blanket, smothering him.

He is _strong_.

He tries to make his mind blank. Blank and quiet. It's difficult. In the back of his mind is a little shrill of panic, impossible to block out. Better had the Americans crippled him than _this_ —this childish fear of the dark and the wet. In his cell there had been nothing; no light, no noise, no sensory stimulation at all, only the walls of his own mind to rail against. Nothing but haunting old memories—unless he appeared to be falling asleep. Then he would be woken and dragged out immediately to be ... interrogated.

No sleep, nothing but the dark and the drowning and the tricks his mind played. For days.

He forces himself to be calm, even though the darkness is suffocating. He breathes deeply just to make sure he can. For the first time in his life he's been having nightmares, all those old memories brought to the surface now, and he hates it. He intends to banish them, if not through meditation then through lack of sleep.

The slightest brush of sound has him off the bed and ready for battle in a heartbeat. When no other noise is forthcoming, he lights a lamp. The cat is on the floor, peering up at him with its one eye.

“You,” Barsad says dully, taking a seat on the bed again. The cat bounds lightly up to his side, pushing her head against his bloodied knuckles. He strokes her ears obligingly and hears her begin to purr.

She is as trusting a fool as her master, always seeking affection even after it brought such terrible violence upon her. She was probably looking for somebody to pet her when she came across those men. Probably purring right up until they put her in a bag and set it on fire. She creeps into his lap, and he can feel some of the tension leave his body. He focuses on the light, and keeps petting her.

He hears Bane coming a moment before his door swings open. The cat takes one look at him and flits under the bed.

“Gather your things,” Bane says. Barsad is halfway to his feet, thinking they're in danger, when Bane adds, “You are moving to the room across from mine.”

Barsad hesitates. Then John appears, slightly out of breath, right behind Bane.

“You can't just tell him like that,” John snaps at Bane. “You have to ask.”

Bane's eyes narrow. “Why? He will do as I say.”

Barsad begins to collect his meagre possessions, slowly. “Why am I moving?”

“The men think you are John's lover,” Bane says. “From now on, as far as they are concerned, you are. Each morning the men will see John leaving the corridor where your room is and they will believe he slept there, rather than in my room.” He's got a sort of swagger to him, an air of triumph; but suddenly these both fade and his voice lowers to a rumble. “This should please you, Barsad. I know how you fear for my image.”

 _He knows_ , Barsad thinks, staring back at him; but then, of course he does. John told him, no doubt. Why, then, does Bane look ... angry? He'd seemed so content after beating Barsad in the training room. If John has decided to share his new room, Bane should definitely be content.

“When I have to leave, John will sleep in your room,” Bane continues. His eyes are hard. “Which means you will sleep there, as well.”

Barsad bristles. Expose John to his nightmares?

“Why do I have to sleep with him just because you're gone?” John demands.

“Because he is the only man in this temple I trust,” Bane growls, answering John but staring Barsad in the eyes. “If any men mean to act against me they may start by searching my room, and nobody can find you there alone, John. I will not allow it.”

“Will I not be going with you, when you leave?” Barsad asks. He knows, after all, the sort of trips Bane is likely to be taking with the League. In the past he's always been at Bane's side. It's strange to realize Bane intends to leave him behind.

“You are the only man I trust,” Bane repeats flatly. “I need you here to keep an eye on things while I am gone.”

Barsad can accept that, even if he doesn't like it. He itches to be out doing his job, perhaps perched somewhere high and cool and quiet with the weight of his rifle in his hands and a target in the scope, waiting and watching. He needs that steadiness. It's the only time he feels truly at home—and he doesn't trust anyone else to guard Bane's back as accurately.

“I will change rooms,” he says.

“Good,” Bane says.

Barsad thinks that will be the end of it, that Bane will be satisfied with this arrangement and forget his annoyance at not being the one to train John; but when John rolls his eyes and stoops down to fish the cat out from under the bed, Bane continues to glare over his head into Barsad's eyes. Barsad does not let his expression betray a flicker of emotion, but he gets the distinct impression that he has just been warned.

 

***  
In the days that follow, Barsad seems to get gradually ... more bitter. If John weren't certain beyond a shadow of a doubt, he would half wonder if Bane's suspicions were correct, that Barsad has feelings for him. He knows it isn't true, but Barsad _is_ more morose lately, and a little gaunter with each passing day.

He doesn't flag in his training of John one bit, though. He's as hard on John as ever, maybe even harder whenever John seems to be moving slower than usual (because Barsad, damn him, of course knows the reason for any stiffness or tiredness on John's part). He's growing increasingly impatient with John.

“Faster,” he demands, using a rattan stick to force John to pivot. John, blinking sweat out of his eyes, rallies and strikes at him. Barsad flicks his stick aside. “Much too slow. Pathetic, John.”

“I'm _trying_ ,” John grits out. He lunges forward, trying to use a little side-step move Barsad taught him the day before. The next thing he knows, there's a wicked crack and he's on his knees, blinking stars out of his vision.

“That was better,” Barsad says. “But still slow.”

There's a low growl above them and they both look up. Bane is standing on an overhanging catwalk, watching them train. John gives him a little smile, but Barsad makes an impatient gesture with his hand and Bane turns away.

Barsad turns back to John, eyes hard.

“If your nocturnal activities are interfering this badly with your training—”

“They're not,” John protests, struggling to his feet. His face burns. “I'm just tired, okay?”

Barsad waves an arm around the room at large, indicating the other men who are sparring in pairs. “Every man here thinks I work my pupil harder in bed than I do in here,” he says distastefully.

“You're the one who wanted me to distract him,” John snaps.

“Who is distracting who, I wonder?”

“Enough.” Bane has come down and joined them. He rests a firm hand on Barsad's shoulder. “Goading him will not help either of you. John ...” He steps closer, touches John's lower back. “Straighten your spine. Be firmer.”

“His posture is not the problem,” Barsad says. “His smart mouth is.”

“Really?” Bane brushes his thumb over John's lower lip, unblinking. “I find his mouth in perfect working order.”

John smiles in spite of himself. The next thing he knows, there's a flurry of movement and Bane is shoving Barsad back, bristling furiously, gripping Barsad's forearm tight. They glare at each other like a couple of hackling dogs.

“Not here,” Barsad bites out. John's brain belatedly registers that Barsad had attempted to swat Bane's arm away, and Bane had reacted almost too swiftly for John to even see.

Gently, he lays a restraining hand on Bane's arm. “Bane, he's right.”

Bane releases Barsad. The other men are sneaking glances at the three of them. Without speaking, Bane stomps off into the next room, where the weights are.

“Now he's pissed off,” John says lowly.

“He may be a child if he chooses. He agreed to this plan. Concentrate now.”

They do a little more sparring before Barsad gets fed up and sends him away to do training exercises. John notices that Barsad slips out the same way that Bane went.

At the end of the day, when John is lying in the bed he shares with Bane and receiving a tender massage, Bane begins to strip him out of his layers. The warmth from the fireplace chases any chill out of the room; John stretches comfortably beneath him. Bane rests a palm on the small of his back.

“May I take you tonight, John?” he rumbles gravely.

John grins into his pillow. The politeness always makes him want to laugh. He rolls over. “Yeah.”

Bane takes this part very seriously. He knows how easily he could hurt or tear John. He uses the lubricant from John's bag to slick his fingers, then pushes one of John's legs up and out of the way and slides one finger in. John settles back into the sheets, flushed, eyes half closed. Bane is thorough and gentle enough that this has started to feel like just another part of the massage.

“Barsad talked to me today,” Bane says when John is ready to take another finger. “He is afraid I'm leaving you too sore and too distracted for your training.”

“Barsad thinks every sexual being fucks constantly,” John says, still lax. He doesn't want to think about Barsad or training right now. “We don't.”

It's true: they've only had sex like this a few times. There's no need to rush, no time limit on their relationship now. More often and John probably would be too sore to train. Most nights, it's just the massage, coupled with a happy ending if John's done well that day.

“That's what I thought.” Still, Bane sounds relieved. “It's important to focus on your training, John. Don't give Barsad a reason to push you any harder.”

John snorts softly. Then he pushes at Bane a little, gently enough that it takes Bane a minute to even notice John's hand on his stomach. He moves aside, and John guides him onto his back on the bed. John feels his way over the various straps and buckles and clasps that hold Bane's outfit together, pushing the utility harness up out of the way and then drawing Bane's pants down. His cock lies against his thigh, partly hard. Bane makes another rumbling sound that turns to a purr when John lifts it and starts suckling at the head, teasing the glans out of its sheath.

He knows Bane is really enjoying it when he feels Bane's fingers start to run through his hair, stroking and lifting and kneading a bit. John's gotten better at this since that embarrassing first time in front of Bane's guards, but he thinks Bane likes a little sloppiness. He likes to see how John's eyelashes get wet and his lips turn red and his cheeks flush. Bane's not entirely immune to sensation, and there are parts of his body more sensitive than others, but John knows there's no hope of getting him off without this intimate, psychological aspect. That, he thinks, is why no one's ever been able to get Bane off before: he didn't care about them. But when John is between his knees, gasping wetly around his cock, putting on a show just for him, the bedframe creaks under Bane's other hand and a dribble of precome lands on John's tongue. He laps it up without a care. He's turning Bane on. The knowledge is heady and intoxicating.

When Bane is too impatient to wait any longer, he pulls John around onto his knees and slides three fingers into him, stretching him as gently as he can in his haste. John folds his arms and rests his head on them, not caring about how he's presenting himself to Bane. Bane's fingers withdraw and John hears him slicking himself; he screws his knees into the bedcovers in anticipation of what his body knows is coming: the slide of Bane's cock against his cleft, until the head snags on John's hole and Bane starts to push in.

John's body tightens; a harsh sound escapes his throat without his permission. He unfolds his arms, needing something to brace against so that he doesn't involuntarily try to pull away from Bane altogether. He finds the headboard and grips it tight, forcing himself to stay still while Bane breaches him agonizingly. He breathes through it, even starts to push himself back onto Bane's cock. It fills him; he can barely breathe. Stars burst in his vision and he's gasping raggedly by the time Bane bottoms out, his balls flush against John's hole.

Bane likes this part; he often stops just so he can touch John, his shoulder blades, his chest, his stomach, his sides. He runs his hands up and down John's ribs as if reassuring or bracing him for what will come next. Occasionally he presses his mask to the back of John's neck, where John is flushed and glistening with sweat, his breath cool and pleasant against John's fevered skin. Once or twice John has started to twist around to kiss him, only to stop himself when he remembers. At last Bane's hands continue their roving exploration, skimming over the line of soft hair down John's navel, to where his cock twitches, half-hard, against his leg. Just a few strokes are enough to have John fully erect and lightheaded once more.

Bane's hands settle decisively at John's waist and he squeezes once before he starts to fuck. John grips the headboard as tight as he can, squeezes his eyes shut and grunts on every thrust. Bane is growling, little raw animal noises made raspier by the mask. They fit together, John thinks feverishly. No one else can do this for Bane. Just him.

Once the initial frantic need to rut has subsided, Bane starts pulling out almost all the way before he thrusts back in. It means that on every second thrust or so, the head of his cock grinds John's prostate deliciously. John is a mess within minutes; he can't even articulate the words _Bane_ or _please_. His thoughts are overtaken by static buzzing and white noise. He takes one hand away from the headboard to jerk himself frantically, and shudders apart in Bane's hands when he comes, spurting all over the blankets. Bane slows down, languorously milking John's prostate for all it's worth.

John is shivering and oversensitized when he comes back down. Usually Bane gives him a minute or two, petting John's back and hair and leaving John speared on his cock until John is ready to go again; but this time, Bane pulls out. John groans aloud at the feeling of Bane leaving him; he can't help it. Bane rolls him over, wipes his hand and his belly, and pulls the blankets up around him.

“Wait,” John says thickly when he's able to string words together again. “Aren't you going to ...?”

“Not tonight,” says Bane.

“Why not?”

“Pleasuring you is satisfaction enough, John.”

John doesn't know how he knows that Bane is lying—he just knows. He pushes himself upright, frowning.

“If you want to come, I'll help you.”

Bane is sitting up, too. He strokes a fist up and down his own cock several times and then stops. Finally, he says: “It isn't enough.”

“What'll help?”

Bane ignores him. He settles under the covers with John, turning down the lamp at his bedside, so that the flickering firelight is all that's left. Unconsciousness is pushing at John, and he wants to just sleep, but he can't.

“It's the mask, isn't it?” It's taking Bane longer and longer to come, he knows it is.

Bane growls: a warning. John ignores it, of course.

“When you didn't have a mask, you said I felt soft. You said you never noticed before that my skin's soft. You can't even feel me when I touch you, can you?”

“Of course I can,” Bane says; but under the covers, John touches his arm, and he makes no acknowledgement.

Now he wonders if Bane has come at all since John moved in, or if he just faked his orgasms. Maybe that's why he satisfies John most nights with a massage and a handjob. Back in Gotham he wanted nothing more than to fuck John every night.

“If sex doesn't feel good to you anymore—”

“I enjoy bringing you to completion, John,” Bane says flatly. “That satisfies me. If I were to keep going you would be far too sore to train in the morning. I know that it takes longer for me to climax; that is my problem, not yours.”

“I think you should take the mask off,” John says.

Bane's eyes narrow in the firelight.

“Nothing bad will happen,” John presses when Bane doesn't say anything. “If you really start to hurt, I'll help you put it back on; but I think it'll help. I think you'll be able to feel. I bet you'll come faster, too, and maybe harder than before ...” _And I can kiss you_ , he thinks suddenly. “Let's just try it.”

Bane is silent for a beat. Then he growls, “No.”

“Bane—”

“ _No_.”

Feeling slightly injured, John lies back down. After a minute Bane wraps an arm around him. John touches the tips of his fingers, and wonders if Bane knows John's touching him at all.


	10. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I get more asks about this WIP than any of my other fics-in-progress, like a couple each week. This is not really a new chapter. It's PWP. It's my offering to you, my patient, lovely readers, in the hopes that one or two of you will still be hanging around when I finally do produce a new chapter. I love you all.

Bane wakes from a drowsing state in his bath when another's limbs knock against his, splashing water up to his mask. His hands, resting on either side of the tub, clench in preparedness, but he knows who it is before he even opens his eyes.

“Move over,” John says, arranging himself between Bane's legs. Bane huffs, and pushes himself up a bit, so that John has room to wriggle up against him.

“You could have requested your own bath.”

“It takes too long,” John says. “And this one's still warm.” His ears are red, but Bane senses it isn't due to the heat of the bath. He remembers how uncomfortable John used to be about touching. He's always liked touching Bane; but things like Bane stroking his erect cock in one hand with John's used to make John writhe with embarrassment. He's more comfortable now; but still he blushes.

Bane wraps an arm around his chest. He pulls John back, guiding him until his back is flush to Bane's front, all the way so that his head tips back to rest on Bane's chest. When that happens, John exhales and relaxes all at once. Bane leaves an arm draped loosely around him.

“Did you have a good day?”

“Barsad beat the shit out of me,” John says. “Again. Then he let some of the other guys beat the shit out of me, but I almost beat one of them. Oh, I can run longer in the courtyard now—I don't get out of breath so fast. I thought that was pretty cool. I could manage maybe five minutes when I got here, and I was out there for about half an hour this morning and could've gone longer. Good, huh?”

“Your lungs are adjusting to the altitude,” Bane says. “It doesn't mean your stamina has improved.”

“I could run longer than you,” John replies, and Bane realizes he has needled the other man. That John was looking for his admiration. He huffs, amused.

“Don't be so sure, detective.”

“I'll race you tomorrow. First one to stop loses.”

“Race with Barsad,” Bane says. “He is your _nenja_ , not me.”

“Race in the freezing cold at this altitude, gee,” John says, sarcastic, “that sounds like way too much fun for Barsad to be interested.”

Bane is annoyed, suddenly, that they are talking about Barsad. He notices belatedly that John is tracing his fingers, one by one, idly, and it softens him again.

“Your training is going well,” he rumbles. “You have proved any doubters wrong. You are a good student and a strong disciple.”

He laces his fingers with John's, and if the action is clumsy then John doesn't notice. It's hard to tell from Bane's angle, but he thinks he sees a smile hovering round John's lips. John settles deeper into the water, so that it's up to his chin, fully comfortable now.

“How was your day?”

“Unfulfilling,” Bane says. “I need to leave the temple soon.”

“Without me.”

“You are safe here.”

“Pretty sure I'm safe with you,” John says. He's bristling again. Bane's songbird is a prickly, temperamental little thing; but then, if he weren't, he wouldn't be John Blake.

Bane squeezes his fingers, very gently, then pulls his hand away from John's. He slides it instead down John's smooth, hard stomach, pausing just to stroke ruefully where the scar from John's gutshot wound is. The bullet is still inside him, lodged in his back muscle. Bane wonders if he can feel it, the way Bane's old hurts flare up so frequently. John is quiet while Bane touches; but when he moves his hand to the inside of John's thigh, thumb skimming his cock, John jerks against him.

“Oh, real mature,” he says, trying to be snide. But John is young and his sexual appetite, Bane has found, is ravenous when awoken, and he loses his bluster the moment Bane curls a hand around him. “Thinking you can shut me up just like— _ah_.”

Bane dips his head, so that his next exhalation ruffles the strands of hair tucked behind John's ear. “Was I wrong?”

“ _Ugh_ ,” John says, and squirms against him, in a way that makes it obvious that he's trying very hard not to squirm, or at least not squirm against certain parts of Bane's anatomy. “No.”

His hand drifts down under the water to rest of the back of Bane's while Bane strokes him. His head tips back even more, his eyes fluttering shut. He's beautiful. Bane aches to tell him so, but cannot find it in him to do so. He's not accustomed to such sentimental thoughts, and never quite knows how to voice them. So he holds it in, admires John's beauty and keeps it to himself.

The more he touches, the more John melts into him, unashamed. Bane is very careful to keep his grip light—because even “light”, by his standards, is likely more than firm enough for John. Too many times he's handled John with kid gloves, and still found bruises on him later. But still, he gives John pleasure. The knowledge that he, Bane—the man who broke the Batman, among so many others—can make this man tremble with his touch is more empowering than any victory he's had in the past. Not for the first time, he counts himself lucky that John even allows him to do this.

When John is fully distracted, eyes closed, Bane brings his other hand around him and slips it between John's legs, seeking his entrance. When he finds it, John makes a strangled sound and arches against him. His hand grips Bane's thigh.

“Too much?”

“No,” John grits out, even though Bane has two fingers inside him already. He pumps them slowly, carefully, seeking John's sweet spot. It's difficult from this angle. John is panting and flushed, letting Bane do this to him. “Keep going. Jesus ...”

Bane obeys. He strokes up inside John and keeps his other hand wrapped around John's cock, mostly letting John arch up into it. He can tell John is close by his harsh, panting breaths and increasingly frantic movements ... but when he thinks John is close to bursting, John suddenly gasps out, “Wait, wait, stop.”

Bane obeys, noticing that John has tightened his hand around Bane's wrist. “What is it?”

John is already struggling upright, disentangling himself from Bane's hold. “Come on,” he says, grabbing a towel. He moves over to the fireplace while he dries himself. Bane stands, dripping water, heedless of the temperature, and watches. John's gaze skates over him, and he smiles. “Come over here.”

Once more Bane obeys, startled when John grasps him between the legs and starts to stroke. He hadn't even noticed he was getting hard. Blood starts to fill his cock and he can feel it, a sweet ache low in his gut. He growls softly, a crackling sound.

“John.”

“You're gonna come tonight,” John says firmly. Bane just looks at him, bemused at his determination—but a little touched, all the same. He wishes it were so easy.

John pushes him over to the bed, down onto the furs and blankets, and climbs onto him. Bane just reclines, amused now. John must be aching to find completion; but he wraps his hand around Bane's length instead.

“Tell me about those people Talia used to bring to you,” he says, hand gliding smoothly up and down.

Bane's sufficiently distracted that Talia's name is only a belated stab, and brief. He surmises that John means the people she brought to his bed.

“What about them?” he asks, curious.

“Well,” John grins again, the briefest flash of dimples. “Did you like any of them?”

Bane reflects—on his memories, and how whichever words he chooses will affect John.

“There was one,” he says slowly, not an untruth. “A young man with dark hair... He seemed less afraid of me than the others.”

“Yeah?” John's not smiling anymore. He looks at Bane from under his eyelashes. “What'd he do?”

“He used his mouth ...” Bane's words twist into a groan when John ducks down the bed to lap at his length. He uses his teeth, very gently, to tug at the loose skin around the head of Bane's cock; then takes it into his mouth—just the head, lapping and sucking to draw it out. Bane's hand clenches around a fistful of blankets.

“Did he make you come?” John asks, drawing off a bit.

“No.” Bane's voice is raw. He pushes his hand clumsily through John's hair, brushing damp strands off his forehead. “No one ever could. Only you.”

That makes John smile again, as he knew it would, awarding him another glimpse of John's dimples, and then the tight heat of his mouth. Bane shuts his eyes to concentrate on the sensation, careful not to grip John's hair too tightly or exert any pressure. John is kneading his thighs now; he feels it distantly.

He growls again when John leaves him, but John returns quickly with the lubricant. What he can't fit in his mouth, he strokes in a tight, slicked fist. Pleasure is a low hum in Bane's gut. He wills it to build, so that he can feel what John feels. He wants to climax. He focuses on the sensations and tries to shut everything else out, everything but the feel of John's silky hair between his fingers. He can remember how this felt in Gotham. He remembers, too, the young man with the dark hair, and the others Talia had brought. Most had been sent away; but some, he'd thought, might have a chance...

None had, though. They always ran out of patience for him, and he for them. Only John had seen his difficulty as a personal challenge. John feels sorry for him; but Bane knows better than to think that's why he's here now, between Bane's legs, moaning around his length.

John peels off his cock at last, and moves so that his face is hovering over Bane's. Bane blinks when he touches the mask, stroking with his thumb just over where Bane's mouth is.

Softly, he says, “Take this off.”

John Blake is many things, but soft is not one of them. He might use that voice in select situations, but not in bed, not with Bane. He's playing at being coy, trying to manipulate Bane with his voice and his gentle hands. Bane is amused—almost.

“Don't test me, little bird,” he says in a low rumble.

John blinks, and then clenches his jaw and takes his hand away. “You don't trust me?”

It's a good question. Bane wants to say yes. He knows, after all, that John is here, in this shared bed with him, because he wants to be and for no other reason. He knows that John trusts him, at least in this.

He also knows that the only reason John followed him across the world is that he wants to return to Gotham a trained warrior, to follow in Bruce Wayne's footsteps; not for any reason like love, or because he believes in the ways of the League—something he's been able to conceal from Barsad, clearly. And he knows that John does not kiss him. He had, once, when he'd thought Bane was dying; but kissing him is not something John does. Not like Talia, who would press playful kisses to his hands or to the corners of his eyes. John has no interest in kissing him, and Bane still pleasures him despite his difficulties—so he trusts John well enough, but he does not trust John's reasons for wanting him to remove his mask.

“You know that I do,” he says flatly, finally. “The mask stays on.”

John huffs a sigh through his nose. Stubborn. Bane is stubborn too, though, and John must realize this isn't a fight he's going to win—not tonight—because he withdraws a little and starts stroking Bane's cock again, slower than before. He takes his hand away momentarily to grab the lubricant, then resumes, pushing two fingers inside himself with his other hand. He fucks himself quickly and gracelessly, and Bane can't resist. He pulls John off his cock, drags him up the bed again so that they're face to face.

“Hey,” John says, startled. Then he swallows and ducks his head when Bane wraps one arm around him, to feel where John breaches himself with his fingers. His tight entrance is hot and slick and Bane fingers it lovingly, making John pant against his neck, hiding his face. He makes a cracked sound when Bane pushes in two fingers alongside John's. “Easy.”

“I won't hurt you.” Never on purpose. He knows what John can take. He helps to stretch him open; and after a minute John brings his other hand back to his own cock. Bane pushes at him, to make him sit up, so he can see. He delights in this—could watch John touch himself, bring himself to shuddering climax, all day. But he likes bringing John to climax even more. So after a minute of watching John stroking his cock—flushed and biting his lip, his face turned aside—and pumping his fingers in and out along with Bane's, Bane withdraws his hand and settles the other lightly on John's hip.

“Let me take you, my Robin.” His mouth is dry; his voice comes out raw.

“Yeah, okay,” John gasps.

He removes his own fingers, and uses his hand to slick Bane's cock a little more. Then he kneels over him, gripping Bane's cock so as to position it, and he sinks down slowly. His face twists with pain when the head breaches his tight ring of muscle, as it always does, but Bane knows that will pass. He lies still and patient, watching John's lean frame tremble as he takes in more. _You are so beautiful._

The hum of pleasure in his gut has transformed into a more urgent throbbing. He wants to fuck into John's heat, suddenly aching to come. It feels as though this is all it will take, sliding into John, the exquisite tightness of him. The way he is surrendering himself so completely to Bane. But Bane knows from experience that it will take more than this. Entering John isn't enough. So he waits for his partner, who drops his head, gasping, when he bottoms out, sitting flush in Bane's lap with his hands splayed on Bane's stomach.

Bane thumbs his cheekbone. “Is it good?”

“Yeah. Good,” John says shakily.

“Do you need more—?”

“No.” John straightens up, stubborn in everything he does. “I've got you.”

He starts to roll his hips, squeezing Bane's cock torturously. Bane touches his chest and stomach while he moves, tracing John's scars. He wishes he could go back in time and kill every person who would leave these on John. The gunshot wound; the knife in his arm; and the ones on his back that Bane can't see right now, which John says came from a belt when he was young. He realizes he's squeezing John's hip too hard when John winces and gasps again, and Bane snatches his hand away. More bruises.

“Easy,” John says again, gently; nothing more.

“Yes.” In apology, Bane brings his hand to John's cock, which has gone soft again. He's as gentle as he can be when he wraps his hand around it, letting John thrust up into it while he rides Bane's cock. John flushes even more; his skin glistens faintly in the light from the fireplace. He drops his head again with a shudder when Bane starts to push up to meet him; damp strands of hair fall across his forehead. Bane can't help but reach up with his other hand to push them away. He trails his hand down John's face, slowly, brushing his thumb over John's lower lip, and he smiles when John nips him in response.

“You close?” John asks, cracking one eye open to look at him. Bane makes a noncommittal sound. John groans, and unexpectedly eases off of him, rolling to the side. “You be on top for a minute. My muscles are killing me.”

Bane moves over him, chiding softly, “Stamina, John.”

“Ha ha,” John says dryly. “I'll pencil that in with my other exercises, 'riding dick', how does that soun—”

The word is bitten off when Bane slides all the way into him, until his hips are pressed to John's skin. John's face tightens again, but only briefly this time. He spreads his legs for Bane as much as he's able, and Bane pushes his thighs apart that little bit further. He loves this, seeing John so pliant underneath him, even if it's not enough. Fucking John feels good, feeding the ache of arousal in his belly, but he knows he's plateaued and can't expect anything more than this. It's a precipice, a glass wall between him and his climax, maddeningly insurmountable. But he's still hard, and he can bring John to his climax like this. He grinds into him slowly, at first, seeking his prostate so that he can end this more quickly. John is fully hard again, his cock leaking onto his belly each time Bane presses into him.

He screws his eyes shut and brings a hand up to his face, gripping a fistful of hair. “Harder,” he says.

So Bane fucks him harder. He knows John is close now. He rolls his hips, and when John's cock jumps and his breath hitches, he knows he's even closer.

“Right there,” John pants. “There, there, _yes_ ...”

He drops his hand and then grabs Bane's shoulders, his fingers digging in. Bane barely feels it; he's too focused now. He shuts everything else out, winds one arm around John to lift his hips off the bed and leans over him on the other. There's no use, but he _wants_ , all the same...

“Faster, I need—can I come?” John blurts out. Bane nods, his breathing rate starting to get a little uneven. Once John comes, he'll be too lax and tired to see to Bane anymore, so he must think he needs this permission. Even though it doesn't matter.

“Yes,” Bane growls, snapping his hips hard and fast. “Come, John.”

He does, almost at once, jerking himself rapidly. His whole body goes rigid, squeezing around Bane's cock. It feels good, so good. Not good enough, but close enough that Bane can pretend to follow him. He lets his thrusts falter, finally rutting in deep one final time with a heavy groan. He doesn't have to fake the harsh breaths that wheeze in and out of his mask.

He stays there until John, panting raggedly, starts to stir. Then he grabs a corner of blanket, wipes John's stomach tenderly, and his hand, which had coaxed out every last drop of his release. John is virtually insensate, which is good for Bane. It means he can pull out, arrange John how he likes him, with one arm draped around him, and settle behind him. His cock throbs, but he can ignore it. It will stop eventually.

John is quiet for awhile, catching his breath. But just when Bane thinks he might have nodded off, he says in a sleepy mumble, “Did you just fake an orgasm with me?”

Bane growls. “No.”

John rolls over to face him. “Remember how we don't use a condom and I know what your O-face looks like?”

That makes Bane bristle. He doesn't have an O-face.

“Funny. They tell you some women do that,” John says, his mouth twisted in a sort of forced smile, “but no one warned me about my terrorist boyfriend.”

“You're tired,” Bane says bluntly. “Go to sleep.”

John touches him, under the covers. Bane knocks his hand away, harder than he means to. John retreats a little, frowning at him.

“You don't have to fake anything with me.”

“Enough, John.” He feels pent-up and impatient and he knows sleep will elude him for a long time. But it isn't going to happen. John's persistence is unwelcome.

John searches his eyes for a moment. At last he says, “I don't want to fight about this.”

“Good. Then don't.”

“I just want to make you feel good.”

“You do,” Bane says gruffly.

John relaxes a little. He rolls over again and lets Bane wrap an arm around him. He's obviously tired, because he doesn't keep arguing. He falls asleep within minutes, long before Bane's erection has subsided.

 

*  
Bane wakes early in the morning, but he's content to stay in bed with John for awhile. His back hurts, and he doesn't want to move just yet. John drowses against him, for so long that eventually Barsad lets himself into their room to wake him up. He paces restlessly while John drags himself, yawning and shivering, out from under the blankets and gets dressed.

“You're half an hour late for breakfast,” Barsad tells him. “What will the others think?”

John flicks a grin at Bane, and says to Barsad, “Probably that you fucked me so good all night I can't even walk today.”

This has the intended effect: Barsad shakes his head impatiently and stalks out of the room, shutting the door behind him. Bane smirks, then grabs his pants off the floor and sits on the edge of the bed to pull them on. John joins him, after a moment.

“Hey,” he says, with a carefully casual tone. Bane collects his wrist brace off the bedside table and waits. Eventually John offers, “Last night was good.”

Bane grunts in assent. He tenses when John takes him by the wrist, and relaxes when John starts to do up the straps on the brace for him, Bane's forearm laid across his lap.

“I won't push you,” John says, focusing on the wrist brace. He secures it nice and tight, and lets Bane's arm go. “Of course you shouldn't take off your mask if you don't want to. So ... just wanted to say that, before I go and train today. We do this however you want. Okay?”

“Alright,” Bane rumbles, a little doubtful that John will drop the matter so easily.

“Cool.” He grabs Bane's hand and kisses the back of it, just a quick press of his lips, before popping off the bed. “See you tonight.”

Bane sits there a minute longer before gathering the rest of his clothing. Numb as he is, he can still feel John's lips pressed to the back of his hand. This is ... different, he thinks. Maybe his little bird is more complicated than he'd thought.


	11. Chapter 11

One of the irritating things about being John Blake's mentor is that he is, in fact, a fairly excellent pupil. Barsad had known he was a good student, but here at the temple, where learning occupies most of his day, he begins to truly flourish. He has all the instincts of a good fighter, and he doesn't complain—not about the rigorous schedule Barsad puts him on, nor about the hurts Barsad inflicts. And it's possible Barsad's blows were heavier than necessary, at first, but he tells himself it's because he needed to see that John wasn't as soft as he feared.

John is not soft. He accepts everything that is flung at him; and Barsad is the one who finds himself softening to John. Perhaps he was unfair when he assumed Bane had only wanted to bring John along for companionship. John, Barsad ultimately and reluctantly decides, has the makings of a soldier after all.

The irritating part is that it makes him protective of John when others edge in on his training. The other men often ask Barsad to take on their students for an afternoon so that he can teach them some skill or knowledge, and the normal custom is for these men to then take John and impart some of their teaching on him. Barsad does not want John learning from the others. He wants to control what John learns so that he doesn't pick up their bad habits.

The result is that he ends up taking some other student for an afternoon every now and then, purely for the sake of good relations within the temple, and sends John to train with Bane—who does, after all, have exceptional skill—instead. If he harbours some foolish hope that they will accomplish anything productive, it is quickly dashed. Bane does teach John, but, as Barsad had feared, goes too easy on him. Much too easy. When Barsad interrupts a lesson, it looks more like playing than fighting or teaching.

He berates John at the end of one day, as they go down empty hallways toward the end of the temple where their rooms are. John trudges behind him.

“Fine,” John says, tired and sarcastic. “I'll tell Bane to hit me harder when he teaches me. Leave some bruises maybe, rough me up. You know in America we call that domestic abuse, he'd get locked up for it ...”

Barsad turns and smacks him. John is just quick enough to bat the blow away—he's got good instincts; he's never entirely at ease except when Bane is there beside him—but it's hard enough to knock him sideways into the wall, spluttering a startled curse.

“I know what domestic abuse is,” Barsad snaps. “That is the term for cowards who hit women and children. You are neither. You are a grown man in training to become a soldier for the League of Shadows, and you do not learn by being coddled, as Bane should know.”

John opens his mouth and shuts it again. Barsad notices.

“What?” he demands. Likely John's feelings are hurt from Barsad hitting him. John would like to think they are something like friends, as if Barsad's role as his teacher doesn't take precedence over all else. John picks himself up off the wall.

“Nothing,” he says. “You're right. Sorry. I came here to train and I should take it seriously.”

Barsad eyes him. His pupil's expression gives nothing away. Barsad turns away and keeps walking. He trusts John least when John is compliant.

 

*  
“Barsad says you're supposed to beat me up when you're training me,” John says, the next time Barsad gets tied up with the other ninjas and Bane takes John. They find an empty training room, so they can speak freely, without the stiff formalities John is otherwise forced to use in front of the others, if he gets a chance to address Bane at all.

Bane's eyes crinkle. “I would break you with one blow.”

“Yeah, right. Hey.” He shoves at Bane's arm when Bane starts to turn away. “You hit me before, remember? When I was your hostage. I took that just fine.”

The mask turns Bane's chuckle into a wheeze. “I remember. I disagree.”

“People are gonna hit me when I'm Batman,” John points out.

“Which is why Batman wears body armour. Are you so eager for me to hit you?”

“No!” John says hastily. He has absolutely no desire to get punched by Bane. Once was enough. “I'm just saying. You don't have to act like I'm completely helpless. You brought me here so I could train, obviously you think I'm at least a little tough.”

“I do think you are tough,” Bane says easily. “I don't need to hurt you to assure myself of this. Why don't we work on your speed? Try to hit me, if you can.”

“Okay, sure.” Barsad toys with John like this too; he's pretty sure just to show off. But John thinks Barsad is just a little faster than Bane, and he's managed to get one on Barsad once or twice. He might surprise Bane.

He warms up at first, and Bane indulges him, blocking each blow almost effortlessly. “Harder now,” Bane says, and John puts more force into his actions. He pushes himself to move faster. It doesn't matter: Bane, like Barsad, is apparently capable of reading his mind.

“Remember what I told you in Gotham? Your body still telegraphs your movements, John. Try harder.”

John scowls, and obeys. They circle a bit, Bane shifted his footing fluidly and forcing John to move with him without looking at the ground. At one point, Bane swats him lightly on the head when he still fails to connect.

“You have to want to hit me. You're being tentative.”

 _I am not being tentative_ , John wants to snap, but he'd rather Bane think this isn't his best effort.

Bane swats him again. He's careful to use just the tips of his fingers, barely making contact. It has the desired effect. John is pissed now. Even Barsad doesn't brush him off so ... _lazily_ , like he's a child in a tantrum, flinging punches. He gets a little meaner, targeting Bane's left side, with his bad wrist. Bane doesn't even react to this tactic except to growl slightly when John grabs his wrist and wrenches. He twists back, shoving John off easily. John takes a step back now, waiting for what he knows is coming, and when Bane goes to lightly cuff him again, he grabs Bane's hand and twists, ducking under his arm. Bane at once has him around the throat with his other arm, yanking John's back up against him; but John still has a free arm and he uses it to land his elbow solidly in the wall of muscle behind him. Bane grunts, his arm slackening ever so slightly, and John yanks his other arm down and tries to find Bane's instep with his foot; but Bane has changed his stance to prevent this. John briefly scrambles for a new plan; but when Bane's arm tightens around his neck he taps out quickly.

Bane releases him. “That was good.”

“Didn't feel good,” John grouses, moving away. He rubs his throat. “I don't think I could've thrown you anyway.”

“One day.”

“Yeah, one day. You keep saying that but—hey,” John breaks off, his voice dropping abruptly. He's turned to face Bane again, and only now does he see the unnatural crookedness of Bane's pinky finger, sticking out apart from Bane's other fingers. He must have done something when he'd grabbed Bane's hand. He hadn't meant to. “Shit. I'm sorry.”

Bane's brow furrows. After a moment he looks down at where John is looking, and holds his hand up. When he sees his finger he says, “This? It will heal quickly.”

“Yeah, but _Bane_ , shit.” John is struggling not to grab his hand and cluck over it like a girl. He loses that war with himself and does it anyway. Bane grumbles and shifts but allows John to examine him. A minute later John shoves his arm away, angry. “Asshole. This is why I don't want you going off and doing mission bullshit. You only just got better! I just broke your finger and you didn't even notice. What if you get shot in the back and you don't even realize you're hurt till you've bled to death?”

“I expect I would hear a gunshot,” Bane says shortly. “Of course I would feel a bullet, John. You are being dramatic. This is a minor injury—not even a break.”

“You could at least pretend to understand why I'm worried,” John snaps.

“I appreciate your worry. But it is unfounded. This mask has always dulled my pain—that is its purpose.”

“Didn't used to dull your orgasms.”

Bane's eyes darken. “Enough.”

John lets that one go, for the time being. He has a better idea, anyway. “Take me with you. On your mission,” he says, when Bane raises his eyebrows. “I can watch your back. Make sure you don't get shot.”

“You're not ready,” Bane says dismissively. “You will stay here and train.”

“I want to go with you. You haven't even told me where you're going or what the plan is—”

“Is that what troubles you?” Bane interrupts him. “Not knowing what the plan is?”

He really is a mind reader. John just looks at him stonily. Bane's expression, what he can see of it, is likewise cool.

“While you train here, you must learn to accept the League of Shadows' purpose.”

“Starving orphans? Blowing up innocent people?” John says. “That's the purpose you want me to accept?”

“Currently we have men monitoring a warlord who is kidnapping children to form an army. We plan to depose him, install a new leader in his place.” John is silent, and Bane says, “Or are you still determined to consider us the villains, even as you train with us?”

“Okay, so it's not black and white,” John says, defensive. “I still don't think killing people is the answer.”

Bane tousles his hair—like he's a _kid_. John ducks away, batting Bane's arm off and glaring, but Bane's eyes are smiling. “You are absurdly naive.”

“Barsad says it's a lack of life experience,” John says. “But I've seen killing, Bane. I don't think it fixes anything. And I don't think more of it will change my mind like Barsad thinks.”

Bane tips his head, possibly in concession, probably dismissal. “Let's go and find your _nenja_. He can tape my hand.” John starts to follow him out, and as they walk, Bane says wryly, “Perhaps we will try your method, and scold this warlord fiercely.”

 _It's not that simple_ , John wants to yell. He _isn't_ a kid, whatever Bane and Barsad think. They treat him like he's a fool for not seeing the world the way they do. But now is not the time to change Bane's mind, and Bane is willing to drop the matter for now; so he does, too.

Before they run into anyone else, John says, “Barsad thinks he's training me to be in your League. He doesn't know I'm going back to Gotham to replace Batman.”

“No.” Bane pauses. “I think it would be wise not to tell him.”

John has no intention of telling him, but it seems like the kind of thing Barsad will figure out, sooner or later. And John would like to think that his mentor would approve of him dispensing violent justice to criminals, but somehow it doesn't seem as though he will. John only hopes that when the time comes he's already on a plane halfway back to Gotham.

 

*  
Only a few days after this conversation, John goes to their shared room for the night and finds that Bane isn't there. This has never been unusual for Bane in all the time John's known him that he's been healthy—Bane keeps odd hours; John knows that. So he doesn't wait up. He goes to sleep, and when he wakes up early the next morning, Bane is there in the room. John rolls over, opens his mouth to greet him before he sees what Bane's doing. He's packing.

Harvey slips under the bed as soon as John gets up and says sharply, “You're leaving?”

“You knew I would be,” Bane says, carelessly piling clothes into his bag.

“You were supposed to _warn me!_ ”

“I did warn you,” Bane says. “I told you I would have to leave the temple soon. That was a warning.”

“I meant give me a timeframe, Bane!” John snaps.

Barsad appears in the doorway from across the hall, fully dressed, attracted by John's raised voice—first hovering to gauge the situation, then folding his arms over his chest and settling against the doorframe to watch. John ignores him, and so does Bane.

“How long are you gonna be gone, do you even know?”

“No.” Finally Bane raises his head, eyes narrowed. “You are upset. Why?”

“I don't know, because I just got done thinking you were gonna die and now you're leaving on some violent trip, I guess—”

From the doorway, Barsad addresses Bane in the shared language of the League. Bane growls a reply.

“If you're gonna talk about me when I'm right here, do it in English,” John says loudly.

“We were not talking about you. He wanted to be sure I had packed spare canisters.” Bane sounds derisive, as he always is of Barsad's streak of mother hen. He closes his bag. “You are acting like a child.”

“I think it's reasonable to be pissed off when you were about to sneak out without telling me!”

“I would have woken you before I left.”

Bane is calm in the face of John's bristling anger, which pisses him off even more. He looks at Bane's taped fingers and thinks, _why couldn't you have waited till it healed?_ —as though that would make any kind of difference. And deep down, he thinks, it's not even the mask, it's not the dangerous people Bane is headed out there to kill even though it's nothing to do with him. He kind of hates doing this in front of Barsad, who's still watching, but finally he spits it out:

“How do I know you're coming back?”

“John.” Bane's eyes soften. “Of course I intend to return. This is my home.”

“I mean, how do I know this isn't some crazy suicide mission, after ... you know.” John doesn't even want to say her name. But he may as well have, the way Bane goes still and silent for a moment, looking down at his bag.

“I will be quite safe,” he says, finally.

“Yeah? Dealing with your warlord?” He forces himself to swallow. “You're not gonna, like—kill any of those kids?”

“The League does not kill innocent people,” Barsad interjects from the door.

John rounds on him, angry at the intrusion. “Don't turn around and pull some 'no one is innocent' crap on me, I know how your brain works.”

To his everlasting surprise, this actually gets him a quick, fierce grin from Barsad. It doesn't reassure him one bit.

“We will not kill anyone we don't need to kill,” Bane says. “And I will be safe. As will you.”

John has subsided a little, growing sullen now rather than angry. “I'm not a toddler. I don't need Barsad to _take care_ of me just because you're not here.”

“No? Whenever I turn my back, it seems you're making poor decisions.”

“He will be in one piece when you return,” Barsad says flatly. He's pretending he doesn't care, that he's only here to watch them bicker, but John can tell he's pissed about this, too. He wants to be out there with Bane, killing people. He wants to feel useful. But, John thinks, he's too loyal to say anything. Or maybe he already has, and Bane wouldn't budge.

Bane looks at John, who says, finally, “I won't do anything stupid if you don't.”

He thinks that makes Bane smile. Then, closing the gap between them, Bane leans down and presses the cold grille of his mask to John's forehead. He cups John's face in one hand as he does this, resting his thumb on John's cheekbone. John shuts his eyes, torn between embarrassment that they're doing this in front of Barsad, and not giving a crap. Too soon, or not soon enough, Bane steps away.

“I'll be back,” he says, swinging his pack over his shoulder. “Soon.”

Barsad moves away from the door, and Bane leaves.

John and Barsad look across at one another.

“Get dressed and eat so we can begin,” Barsad says after a moment. He's disgruntled, and being careful not to show it; but John can read him, a little, now.

“I'm not sleeping in your room tonight,” he says mutinously.

“ _Go_ ,” Barsad snaps, and John remembers that he's still in the temple, still in training, even if Bane isn't here. It's not as though the whole place will simply cease to function with him gone. But it feels as if it should.

 

*  
“This is it?” John demands when he's shown Barsad's room that night, across the hall from his and Bane's.

Barsad looks at him coolly. John's still stuck on the contents of the room. Almost content, singular, actually – there's a single mat on the floor, which Barsad apparently sleeps on. It is, John notices after a moment, covered by a thin blanket. Oh, and there's a box by the wall. So there are three contents. All of Barsad's worldly possessions.

“I'm not sleeping on that,” John says.

“It's serviceable,” Barsad says.

“Yeah, and what's it stuffed with? Straw? Needles, thistles?” John demands. “I might be training here, but I didn't think that meant I had to do the whole suffering thing. I thought that was just your thing.”

“I will bring you another blanket,” Barsad says dryly.

“Forget it,” John grumbles. “I'll bring my own blankets. You need one of those fireplace things, though. It's freezing in here, how do you even sleep?”

Barsad huffs sharply through his nostrils. But all he says, with a sardonic dip of his head, is: “As you wish.”

John had expected Barsad to be on his side about this. Personally, he feels like Bane is being a little paranoid about the whole thing. But to his surprise, when he'd reiterated his desire to sleep in his own bed, Barsad had agreed stoutly with his leader. “We aren't certain yet of everyone's loyalty,” he told John when they'd sat down to eat that evening. “Any man who wants to betray Bane will likely start by searching his belongings for something to use against him. You are something.”

Half of the men here probably fuck their pupils, John had thought angrily, and nobody gives a crap. But he didn't say it at the time, because he knew how Barsad would respond: those men don't consider themselves lovers. And they aren't Bane. They're mere mortals, allowed to indulge in such basic things as sex. Bane has an _image_. And John, as far as Barsad is concerned, is ruining it.

So he shut his mouth, and now he trudges back to his own—to Bane's—room, grabs an armful of thick blankets, and lugs them across the hall. Within an hour Barsad has set up a brazier and the crackling fire within slowly fills the room with warmth. John basks in it, and Harvey joins him. Eventually, John constructs himself a thick, padded blanket cocoon on the mat, and between him, the cat on his chest, and the brazier, the cocoon warms up quickly. In fact, he's pretty comfortable.

Barsad just sits in the corner, looking lost in thought. There's nowhere else for him to sleep, unless he sleeps on the cold, bare floor, and John doesn't think even he would opt for that.

“You can get in here,” John offers finally. “I don't bite.”

“I'm comfortable.” Barsad leans over and opens the mystery box. Out of it comes his disassembled rifle, a cloth, and oil. He sits there, apparently content, and starts cleaning his gun by the light of the fire. John rolls onto his side, dislodging Harvey, and watches him. Disgruntled, Harvey slithers out of the bed and saunters over to Barsad. When she lets out one of her creaky meows, he puts a hand out without even looking at her and rubs her head with his thumb. John can hear her purr from the bed.

“You like cats, huh?”

For a minute he thinks Barsad won't respond. But: “There were cats on the farm where I grew up. My mother fed them and made them tame. I like them better than dogs.”

John smiles despite himself. “You grew up on a farm? Really?”

“Yes.” Barsad does not smile. He puts down one piece of his rifle and picks up another.

A few seconds pass before John offers, “I grew up in Gotham.”

“I remember.”

He had told Barsad that, hadn't he? At some point. Had he told Barsad about his parents, too? “What was your family like?”

There was another pause.

“My mother was kind,” Barsad says at last, with no inflection. “My father was cold. A drunk. He wasn't always. Only after my mother had died. I don't remember what he was like before that.”

“How old were you?”

“Four.”

“I was young, too, when my mom died,” John offers after a few moments, in which Barsad doesn't bother to explain how she died. “I don't really remember her much.”

Barsad doesn't bother saying anything in response to this, either. To be honest, John is surprised he's said as much as he has. He can't recall Barsad ever talking about himself before now.

A gentle click as Barsad puts down one piece and picks up another. John dares to push his luck, and asks, “You have any siblings?”

“An infant sister,” Barsad says slowly. “She died with my mother.” A pause. “And a brother who took care of me when our father would not. I was very close to him.”

John smiles at the thought of a young Barsad, admiring of his older brother. “What happened to him?”

For the first time Barsad glances up, raising his eyebrows in the flickering firelight. “I killed him,” he says, in the same flat tone with which he'd said they were close.

And, really, what had John been supposed to expect? It's a bit of a gut-punch to look at Barsad, then, his mentor and friend, and see the same terrorist he'd seen the first time they met. He's become so accustomed to thinking of Barsad a different way; gotten close to him and chosen to believe there was a good person in there, at his heart, like Bane; but there's not. There's nothing, nothing but his mission. He saved John's life, in Gotham, but that means nothing except that Bane wanted him alive. He doesn't care.

Maybe it's a League ritual—maybe they find a person you love and make you kill them, so you can be dead inside and devoted like the rest of them—maybe John's in over his head.

He hates Barsad a little, then, for making him wish he'd never come here. He wishes Bane would come back, and it's only the first night.

He rolls over and puts his back to Barsad, wondering how he's supposed to sleep in the same space with him for however long he has to. He misses Bane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter for the folks who are still out there waiting on one. Apologies for the wait. I love and cherish all the comments I continue to get on this fic! ♥


	12. Chapter 12

Barsad is distant the next day. Maybe he regrets sharing so much of himself with John. He does everything so carefully; but maybe John's questions had caught him off guard. Whatever the reason, he dumps John on a couple of the other more senior ninjas—abnormal, since he usually guards John possessively, something which hasn't escaped John's notice—and pisses off to hang out with some of the others. Of course, he may not be avoiding John. With Bane gone, Barsad's essentially in charge. But it's annoying all the same.

While John puts himself through rigorous exercises, he imagines confronting Barsad. _Why'd you tell me that about your brother? To scare me? You've called me your brother._ He imagines Barsad raising a laconic eyebrow, uncaring of John's consternation. John thinks of what Bane would say about it, and pictures him equally unfazed. _You knew already that Barsad kills men. Why should this crime be so heinous to you?_

John's not sure himself, is the thing. He doesn't even know the circumstances. Maybe the brother tried to seduce Barsad's wife; maybe he'd gotten in a fight with Barsad and it got out of hand. Partly John is mad that Barsad didn't even bother defending himself or offering an explanation. Maybe he was expecting John to ask for one, and was happy to let the conversation end where it did. Maybe he wasn't trying to force a particular reaction at all—maybe killing people is so commonplace to him that he really does think nothing of having killed his own brother, nor of telling John about it.

For two days John works out and trains by himself or with some of the other men, falling into his blankets on the mat in Barsad's room at the end of the day, and waking to find Barsad seated cross-legged in the corner, tending to his weapons. Barsad doesn't sleep, not that John sees. And he doesn't seek John out in the temple; not until three nights have passed since Bane left, and John is practicing his balance on the poles, alone. Barsad materializes at his side.

“Come,” he says. “Outside.” He's already dressed in thick layers, a leather pack slung over his shoulder, and he's holding a coat and scarf for John, too. John jumps down off the poles and takes the clothing wordlessly. Barsad gives him the pack, too, and they set out.

It's cold, but not terribly, and the sky is clear. John keeps up gamely with Barsad, who picks his way expertly over the rocks with some clear destination in mind.

“Missing Bane?” he asks without looking back at John.

“Are you?” John shoots back. He does miss Bane, but he doesn't need Barsad knowing that. He's very uncertain of his mentor, suddenly.

“Yes,” Barsad says, surprising him. He stops. “Here is good.”

'Here' is a relatively flat stretch of frozen earth and snow. A line of poles stick out of the snow to one side. Barsad wrenches one free and tosses it to John, who catches it, still staring.

“You miss him?”

“My skills are wasted here,” Barsad says, with an easy shrug. “And he may need me, out there.”

“He's pretty good at looking out for himself,” John points out, even though he'd wanted to go along for the same reason—to watch Bane's back (and, maybe, to keep him in line a little). Barsad grins crookedly over his scarf.

“Last time I left him alone, he took an explosive to the gut. He overexerts himself. You don't know him like I do, yet.”

John's hand tightens around the pole. It's dumb and childish, but he can't help his response. “What are you, his wife?”

“Yes, John,” Barsad says without missing a beat. “I take care of him. I mend his wounds and maintain his mask, as he trusts nobody else to do so. I prepare his food when he forgets to eat. I protect him when he needs protecting. I alone followed him into the cold when he was exiled. If these things make me Bane's wife, so be it.”

He yanks his own stick out of the snow, and adds, “Do not do me the insult of pretending to care better for him simply because you give him something I do not.”

“I'm not gonna say, 'you could if you wanted to,' but,” John says.

Barsad's mouth twists with deep distaste. He's a bit of a homophobe, John thinks, if that's the right word. He doesn't care what everyone else does on their own time, but any insinuation about him taking it is met with disgust. Maybe that's fair; he knows that John knows he was married. Barsad's preferences are pretty plain.

“It was a joke,” John says. “I'm joking. I'm just saying, it's not like it's a contest or something. I care about Bane too. I'm sure he's fine out there.”

Barsad gets a sort of cold, faraway look in his eye, and says, “Do you love him?”

It's so pointed, John's sure he knows the answer already. It makes his face burn. “Don't ask me that.”

“Because he loves you,” Barsad says shrewdly.

“No he doesn't,” John snaps, even though in his heart he knows that yes, yes Bane does. “I like him. I care about him. That's enough. Okay?” Barsad spreads his hands, as if to say _you're the one getting all worked up about it_. Fired up now, John adds, “For the record, we're both comfortable with our relationship, thanks.”

“I'm sure,” Barsad says, and he attacks, giving John no time to actually untangle his thoughts.

Barsad gives him no quarter, either. That's fine; John's worked up enough that he fights back hard in spite of the cold. The wooden poles whistle in the crisp air and crack loudly when they collide; the noise they produce is duller when they manage to hit each other. As usual, Barsad lands more blows than John, but neither of them manages to force the other off his feet.

John is panting by the time Barsad withdraws and calls for a break. They find a couple of rocks and take a seat. Barsad opens the leather pack, removes a thermos, and hands a second one to John. Uncapping it, John finds warm tea inside and drinks gratefully. Annoyance still throbs in him—like Barsad gets to go around judging _John's_ ability to emote!—but Barsad doesn't offer any conversation, apparently willing to drop the previous topic. He just sits, perfectly at peace. John studies him askance with narrowed eyes. When Barsad notices, he raises an eyebrow.

“What'd your brother do?” John asks. “To make you kill him.”

Barsad looks at him so steadily and for so long that John has to look away first, his cheeks hot. He's still pissed about this, but he hadn't meant for it to come out aggressively. He thinks he succeeded. He can't tell if Barsad intends to answer or not. Then:

“You disapprove?”

He's making fun. John lifts his head again, bristling. “You only get one family. You don't get to kill them without a good reason.”

Barsad considers. “He got in my way,” he says finally. “Is that a good reason?”

It shouldn't sting to be brushed off by Barsad—that's nothing new—but it does, anyway. “Do you even care about anything?” John asks. “Or just Bane, apparently?”

“Bane, and his cause,” Barsad replies. “Everything else has been taken from me.”

John has a funny thought, then—he wonders if Barsad feels like John has taken Bane, too, from him. It's not the first time he's wondered if Barsad was jealous of his relationship with Bane. In the past he had always dismissed such notions, because Barsad is clearly not gay nor in love with Bane. But—maybe he doesn't have to be.

“How old were you, anyway?” he asks, and Barsad takes a moment to consider—probably deciding if he wants to tell John or not, rather than trying to remember. He takes a sip of his own drink, and it smells stronger and more bitter than John's tea.

Finally, he says, “Thirteen.”

It's pretty much what John thought, then—that nobody made Barsad bad. He was heartless to begin with.

He caps his thermos and shoves himself to his feet. “I want to keep training.”

Barsad's expression doesn't so much as flicker. He takes a last sip, in no hurry, and says, “Alright.”

Maybe it's John's imagination, but Barsad seems a little fiercer now, his blows a little harder. He puts John on his ass this time, not once, but twice, making John smart. But he tires faster, too, though he doesn't let it show—John can tell. From this John surmises that Barsad is pissed over John asking about his brother, and that he's still not sleeping. He calls it quits before John does, and leads the way back to the temple without talking. Then he disappears, and John has to do his own thing for the rest of the day.

That's fine. He doesn't care if Barsad's offended by his judgement or whatever. In the evening he lights the brazier in Barsad's room and curls up in his blanket cocoon with Harvey. In the middle of the night he wakes up and sees Barsad sitting against the wall again, stitching a tear in one of his shirts. John just rolls over and goes back to sleep.

 

*  
When Bane gets back, John has to wait to greet him. It seems like it's been longer than two weeks since they last saw each other. Every day has been a haze of exercise and training, every night spent restlessly trying to ignore Barsad—who had started, eventually, to lie down on his mat next to John, so deathly still and tense that John couldn't be sure if he was awake or asleep. John works himself hard enough that he doesn't think too much, but at the end of each day he still finds himself missing Bane's touch. Barsad is an ill-suited replacement, a barely-there ghost in the night, and a harried and distracted teacher in the day.

John hovers a bit when Bane is back in the temple, before resigning himself to the fact that he won't get Bane alone until the end of the day. He goes and does some climbing exercises with a few other guys, competing with them, while Barsad is meeting with Bane and the other men who went on the mission. They start sparring, and that fills up some more time, until dinner, and after that John is free to go to his own room and see if Bane is there. He isn't, but John grabs a book and flops onto the bed to wait.

He doesn't have to wait very long. Bane comes marching in, and his eyes glimmer when he sees John on the bed. John smiles and puts the book down.

“How'd it go?”

“Everything went as planned,” Bane says. He doesn't elaborate, and John kind of doesn't want him to. Not now, when he's just happy to see Bane, anyway. Bane takes a seat on the bed, making the mattress sink, and runs his fingers briefly through John's hair. “And you? How were things with Barsad?”

John considers for a minute, not quite sure how to explain his recent change in regard. Finally, he just says, “He really is kind of a dick, isn't he?”

Bane looks at him, reading his expression. Then, suddenly, he laughs—actually laughs, from his stomach; a bass rumbling sound that seems to echo slightly in the mask's tubes. It's kind of creepy and kind of funny and John grins a little, relaxing a bit.

“He can be,” Bane agrees companionably, eyes still gleaming with amusement. He sinks back against the headboard at John's side, knitting his fingers over his stomach. “What has he done to change your mind?”

“You know, I felt bad for him,” John says. “His family dying like that. I figured that's what made him so cold and... But he was already like that, even before he had a wife.”

Bane makes a sound of vague agreement. “He had already killed people, if that is what you mean.”

“Not just _people_ , Bane. He killed his own brother when he was just thirteen. What kind of kid does that?”

Abruptly Bane is more alert, his amusement gone. “He told you this himself?”

“Yeah, he did.”

Then they're both silent for a minute. Maybe Bane is waiting for him to go on. Maybe he's trying to figure out what to say, whether he wants to defend or condemn Barsad to John, and can't decide. What Bane eventually says is fairly neutral.

“Like many of us here, John, Barsad did not have an easy childhood. His was perhaps worse than most.”

“I know. His mom and sister died. He told me that, too,” John says, making Bane's eyes narrow. He doesn't like that John and Barsad had this heart-to-heart without him, John thinks. “Both my parents died and it didn't make me want to kill anyone. Hurt people, yeah, okay, but I've got kids at the boys' home who're like my brothers and I'd never hurt them. All I ever did was—you know, hit some bully in the schoolyard, make him back off the smaller kids.”

“An aspiring Batman already,” Bane notes.

“Fuck off,” John says, unable to stop his mouth tilting into a smile, because he's pretty sure he'd had the same thought, back then. He thinks about telling his fourteen-year-old self that one day he'd be the heir to Bruce Wayne's legacy. Then he thinks about telling his young self what he'd have to do to get here, and he frowns.

Bane rolls off the bed, abruptly. He goes to the dresser, and starts pulling out clothes. Without looking back, he says, “Did Barsad tell you why he killed his brother?”

“He said he got in the way.”

Another noncommittal sound. Bane pulls his shirt off, and John sees stiffness in the movements, but he rakes his gaze over Bane's upper body swiftly and sees no bruises, no fresh wounds amidst the familiar scars. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, goes to Bane and starts unbuckling his belt for him. It comes off, and Bane relaxes a little.

“You're really okay?” John asks quietly. His hands sweep down Bane's back without conscious thought; he pulls them away.

“I'm fine.” Bane turns to face him. John presses one hand to his chest, and the ugly shrapnel scars there, then lifts it away.

“Lie down,” he suggests.

Bane just looks at him for a moment, and then obeys. He gets on his stomach on the bed, arms folded in front of him, and lets John straddle his hips. It's been a little while, but it's easy to get into a rhythm of firmly kneading Bane's shoulders and back, finding knots of tension and easing them with his hands. Bane's hushed exhales sound like purrs under him.

“Did Barsad ever tell you why he did it?” John asks, when a little time has passed and Bane is content and lax. Bane hums.

It's a long minute before he finally replies. “Barsad had a hard and cruel man for a father. This man thought very little of twisting a boy's arm behind his back until it broke. The second time he did this, Barsad decided there would be no more. He told his brother of his plan. His brother disagreed. When Barsad's arm had healed, he went ahead with it anyway. He took their father's gun and hid himself, waiting for him to return home.”

John has stopped kneading Bane's shoulders; he holds his breath.

“Their father returned, drunk, and Barsad's brother, realizing his intentions, tried to intervene; but he was not fast enough. Barsad fired the gun. Barsad missed.” Bane pauses. “It was not a clean shot,” he adds.

 _He got in my way_ , Barsad had said.

“What ... what happened to him after that?” John forces out.

“His father beat him severely, while his brother drowned in blood in the dirt next to him,” Bane says. “And he was sent to prison.”

“At thirteen?”

Bane grunts. “For three years, because he was young, and it was regarded an accident. When he was released he went home, but his father had left their farm. Barsad hasn't seen him since.”

“He told you all this?”

Bane shifts one shoulder: a lazy shrug. “The details, eventually. The rest we learned from Ra's.”

The back of John's neck prickles for no discernible reason. “Ra's?”

“Ra's al Ghul, the Demon's Head. Talia's father. He was the one who collected Barsad personally and brought him into the fold. He saw potential, and wanted to train Barsad himself. But Barsad was weak and ill when Ra's brought him here. He hadn't been taking care of himself; he'd been too focused on bringing his family's killers to justice. He was tired. Ra's felt the best way to make him fierce again would be to rekindle his anger—taunting him for his old wounds, making light of his past. It worked, so perhaps Ra's was correct. I don't know how Ra's knew what he knew—nobody did.”

 _Rot with your city and your parents._ Barsad had provoked John like that once. It worked on him, too; he remembers the pulse of hot fury and the way he'd struck back hard without thinking. But Barsad doesn't train him like that now. John pictures a young Barsad like a snarling dog, friendless and afraid; wanting to rest, except that Ra's al Ghul was pulling his strings. Planting a coil of anger in him and making it tighter and tighter until Barsad lashed out, like a wind-up toy. Even as he pictures it, John knows he's being naive. Barsad was a killer by then already; his blood was cold enough without Ra's al Ghul's training. But he wonders.

“Did Ra's train you too?” John asks, finally.

A rumble of laughter. “Little bird, Ra's al Ghul did not train me. The pit did that. I would have been beneath his notice, except that Talia favoured me. He trained her personally, and Bruce Wayne; few others were worthy.”

“I think you're worthy,” John says stoutly.

Another little chuckle. Then Bane rolls over, tumbling John off his back. He has a tendency to do that without warning, making John feel like he weighs about as much as Harvey. He collects himself and his dignity, and lies down to watch while Bane gets up and starts changing his clothes.

“D'you think Barsad would've been ... better off, if Ra's had left him alone?”

“No,” Bane says promptly. “He needed a purpose. He would have died without one. He nearly did.”

“But he's so ...”

“Do not ever suggest to him that he would be better off without the League,” Bane says, when John trails off. “It is his life and his purpose. As much as we need his skill, he needs the League of Shadows.”

John feels a twinge of resentment at that. “He got tortured.”

“Yes,” Bane says, “and because he is a soldier, he was strong enough to withstand it. However poorly he has managed himself since.”

A lightbulb flickers. “You noticed too.”

Bane nods, settling back onto the bed with John, clad now in soft sleep pants. “My brother can hide few things from me. I don't mention it, John, because doing so would not help anything. He would only feel weak. He needs to let go and move on.”

John rests his forehead against Bane's bare shoulder and shuts his eyes. His throat feels tight. He doesn't want to say it, but he has to, he has to get it out in the open before it chokes him. “I named him. I didn't mean to. I saw him get shot, I thought he was dead. It was an accident, but I named him to the feds, and that's why he got tortured. I fucked up. I feel so stupid, Bane.”

For a queasy moment there's only Bane's hissing breaths through the mask. John holds himself still, waiting to be pushed away. Bane's hand comes across to rest on his back, hesitantly.

“You were stupid. But you made a mistake.”

“Pretty fucking big mistake.”

“You are not a member of the League of Shadows, John. In Gotham you had no loyalty to Barsad.”

“Not everyone is loyal just because they're in a stupid guys' club, Bane,” John snaps. “Some of us just try to look out for our friends.”

“Barsad has no friends,” Bane says. “He makes no attachments.”

“Yeah? He said the same thing about you.”

“And he's right. Barsad and I are brothers in a joint cause.”

Irked, John says, “And what am I, chopped liver?”

Bane's arm around him squeezes slightly. “You and I are not friends, John; we never have been. We have a different connection.”

“Well, fuck you,” John says, rolling away so that his back is to Bane. He probably sounds huffy, and doesn't care. The question, really, is why he _does_ care that Bane doesn't consider them friends. It's a stupid distinction and he's got a point. But he could find a nicer way to say it.

“My intention was not to hurt you.” Bane's voice is low and calm.

“I'm not hurt,” John mumbles.

Bane chuckles again, winds an arm like a warm steel cable around John's midsection and pulls him flush to Bane's chest. John lets himself relax. Lets himself forget about everything else for a moment and takes reassurance from the fact that Bane isn't pushing him away. He made a mistake; but Bane forgives him.

“Did you miss me, little bird?” Bane asks, changing the subject. The words rumble from his chest into John's.

“Uh-huh,” John says, distracted when Bane pushes his hand under John's shirt, splaying his fingers over John's heart. “I missed getting a massage every day.”

Wryly, Bane says, “No one else was willing?”

John doesn't joke back. He takes a moment to settle on the correct response. “You know there's no one else, big guy.”

Bane's arm flexes around him, possessive. His answering hum is a drowsy purr. “Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad so many of you are still reading! Comments continue to thrill and delight me. <3


	13. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another interlude not-totally-related to the story currently. This one takes place during chapters 2 and 3. ...I like hurting Barsad.

He's awake in the dark, hands bound above his head to ensure he stays on his feet. All the blood has drained from his arms, leaving no sensation—just enough pain and discomfort to keep him awake. The blaring children's music, jaunty and jarring and impossible to block out, helps with that too. He tries, anyway, to meditate past this, take himself past his discomforts, and he's so focused on removing himself from the cell and shutting out the music that when he first hears weeping, he's not sure how long it's been going on for.

He breathes lightly, straining to hear. Someone is crying, there in the dark with him. The horrible music is fading from his ears. He can't see anything, at first—the cell is always impenetrably black—but he thinks, after a moment, that he can see a figure kneeling on the ground in front of him. It's the shape of a woman, with tangled hair and torn clothing. She's still weeping softly, with her face in her hands.

He wants to help her. How can he help her, with his hands shackled to the ceiling? She's bleeding, there's blood all around them. She drops her hands and looks up at him now.

“Help me,” she says, locking eyes with him. Green, green eyes.

Fear is a cold spear through his heart. _No._ He yanks involuntarily at his shackles, with all the strength he possesses. He tries to speak, but her name stays locked in his raw throat.

“I need you. Please,” she says.

He starts to thrash in his bindings, he doesn't know for how long. _No, no_. He's lost her once in this lifetime. Not again. He fights like a wild animal, but it's no good; another shadow is walking briskly towards them, raising a gun to her head—

“ _No!_ ” The word bursts out of him, with more strength and volume than he knew he had. He's breathing hard, confused. _Where are they?_ He swings his head from side to side but sees nothing. His eyes ache. He can taste blood in the back of his throat. Music is jangling obnoxiously from the speakers above him.

He's lost her again. His knees almost buckle under him when he realizes, with a ragged gasp of pain.

The music stops; he tenses reflexively. There's a clattering sound outside. He shuts his eyes before the door opens, to protect against the stab of light from outside. But it's too early—they only come for him when he's on the brink of sleep.

“What's wrong, buddy?” Kilkenny asks, chewing gum audibly. He never uses his name. Barsad cracks his eyes open, wincing, and licks his lips.

“My wife,” he says confusedly, hoarse. _She's dead._

Kilkenny whistles. “You been down here too long. Mind plays tricks on you when you go without sleeping for as long as you have. But you know that, right?”

Barsad just looks at him. He doesn't even feel anger anymore. He doesn't feel anything, except the tense readiness for whatever comes next. He can't think, can barely string words together. His hands shake when Kilkenny frees them, and when he allows Barsad to relieve himself in the latrine in the corner. He keeps Barsad's hands shackled together, and when they leave the room, there are three armed guards waiting for them. They'd learned not to underestimate Barsad early on. He's not so sure he's the same man he was two weeks ago, though. A single night's sleep—that's all he needs—but it's been seven days now since they last let him sleep, and he cannot fight three men with guns. Not when he can barely see or walk straight. It leaves him little option but to be led down the long corridor by them.

There are two more men waiting in the room for them. They have to force him onto the table; pin his arms at his sides and strap them down while he snarls at them, like an animal. He's too weak. He settles, tense and panting, and Kilkenny looms over him.

“Last chance. Where's Bane?”

Does he know where Bane is? He feels like he doesn't; but he finds himself wracking his brain anyway. He already knows which words to use, though, and they come automatically. “I don't know.”

He hadn't spoken to them when this started. He'd stayed cold and silent, accepting their abuse. But he couldn't stay that way forever, not with them withholding sleep and systematically drowning him twice a day. They were going too far, pushing their limits. “No more,” he'd coughed out, finally, in the slim space they gave him to breathe; so frantic he wasn't even sure he was speaking English. The words came involuntarily. “Stop. No more.” _Please._

And they _had_ stopped, to his amazement; tilted the table up and let him retch and cough, shivering, until his throat was clear. Kilkenny stepped in then, wasting no time. But his questions fell on deaf ears. Barsad had breathed and calmed and hardened himself again, seething with shame and anger, until Kilkenny spat on the floor and told them to start over.

“Missed your chance, buddy,” he'd said, with a rueful shrug. He's amicable like that, this man with the sunglasses and the nicotine gum. Barsad is careful not to underestimate him, either. Kilkenny is always laidback, but he's intelligent and dangerous. He knows what he's doing. Barsad has learned that now. He can push Barsad right to the brink of death, but he reels him back in swiftly enough, good as new for the next session.

Barsad has a wry, wary sort of respect for him. Any man so skilled at torture deserves some admiration. And this is torture—he has no doubt about that. The Americans don't lay a hand on him to punish him physically; yet they are torturing him all the same. Barsad can actually feel himself losing the armour that has protected him for so long. In a vague, disconnected way, he's fascinated, as if watching this happen to someone else.

He's very tired. Just one good sleep, that's all. His answer is not satisfactory, as he had known it wouldn't be, and given it anyway. It's almost a relief to be lying down. He wants to sleep. The water fills his mouth and throat; and after some time, he does sleep.

They revive him at once. The table is upright when he comes to, so that gravity carries the water away when he coughs. His breaths when he recovers are wheezing, tearing sounds. His heart jackhammers his ribs. He hates this, and has no words to make it stop.

The men are standing back, except for the supervising medic, who moves away once Barsad is conscious. Kilkenny has his arms folded over his chest, eyes narrowed.

“Let's take a break,” he says finally. He walks past Barsad, picking up a half-empty bottle of water on his way, then pauses and holds it out to him. “Thirsty?”

Barsad gazes at him, mute. He hopes his face doesn't show what he feels. The other man snorts and takes a swig of water.

“Please listen to what I'm telling you,” the medic says, behind Barsad. It takes Barsad a moment to figure out the man is not talking to him, and even longer for his brain to put the words together. “It's been two weeks. Any attempt to get information beyond a certain point is fruitless. He is past that point.”

“He can still talk,” Kilkenny says. He picks up the wet cloth and turns to Barsad. “Right, buddy? Where's Bane?”

“I don't know,” Barsad mumbles wearily, automatically, turning his head aside.

“I'm not talking about that,” the medic says. “You can hear him slurring. He's been awake for a week. Mentally, cognitively, he is breaking down. Memory loss, confusion, hallucinations—even if you get him to speak, it's extremely unlikely that he has anything accurate to offer.”

Kilkenny makes a sound of contempt, puts the water bottle down and starts pulling out a cigarette.

“I doubt that he will talk, anyway,” the medic continues. “He's either been extremely well trained, or—have you considered that he truly doesn't have a close connection with Bane?”

“I know he knows where Bane is,” Kilkenny says at once. “I can see it every time I look in his smug fucking face.”

“Perhaps it's time to interrogate one of the others more closely.”

“This one is the closest to Bane,” Kilkenny snaps. “You remember Bane, right? Threatened a city with a four-ton nuclear bomb? Finding him is the most important thing since fucking 9/11. God knows what the fuck he's doing out there or if he has reinforcements.”

“I agree that we need to find him,” the medic says patiently. “I'm simply saying that you won't find him through this man. Not in the state he's in now, maybe not ever. They're loyal, these men, insanely so. You have to come up with something else. I'm withdrawing my permission for you to continue with this subject at this time.”

“You fucking dickless—” Kilkenny breaks off, takes a deep drag from his cigarette. He's angry, his lips a tight line. Barsad watches him surreptitiously. They think he's borderline unconscious, unable to take all this in, but he is, wary and suspicious. Kilkenny looks at him, suddenly, and Barsad lets his gaze flit away.

“Take him back to the cell,” Kilkenny grunts finally. “Let him lie down.” While the guards move forward, he says to the medic, he says, “You want something else? Fine.”

The guards loosen the restraints, cuffing Barsad's hands back together. They have to pull Barsad off the table, and they almost have to drag him back down the corridor to his cell. But he doesn't care, because when they get there, they let him sink to the floor. He lies there for a minute, and then the two guards are back, one pointing a gun at him while the other shoves a pallet into the cell. They shut the door again.

He finds the pallet by feel and crawls onto it. Perhaps he shouldn't sleep. Perhaps this is some trick, and he should be bracing for whatever it is they have planned for him. But he can't—he has nothing left. He's cold and wet and half afraid of what he might see or hear in the dark, but he needs sleep.

It doesn't come. He knows he is safe, temporarily. But just as he can't convince his brain that he isn't really drowning, he cannot seem to trust that now, when there is no music, when he is on the brink of falling asleep, they won't come for him again. That's always when they come for him. He finds himself curling in a tight ball, fists clenched, panting softly, and knows there will be no sleep for him while he's in this room. They are tricking him.

He's afraid, he realizes, and marvels. Has been afraid almost since they brought him here. He doesn't want to stay awake and see things in the dark that aren't there—he does not want to leave the dark for the blazing white sterility of the waterboarding room. He wonders, if he knew where Bane was, whether he wouldn't have already betrayed him. He's glad Bane can't see him now.


	14. Chapter 14

John feels a hot jolt of indignation when Barsad leads him to an icy expanse, air bubbles visible below the surface. He rounds on his mentor.

"No."

There's a ghost of a smile on Barsad's lips. "I told you how it would be at the temple. Did I not?"

"Yeah, for loonies like you and Bane." John folds his arms over his chest. "You already almost killed me once with this shit."

"Bruce Wayne trained this way," Barsad says, and he drops this little factoid so casually that it momentarily sweeps all of John's anxiety away.

"Really?" He's never heard Barsad talk about Bruce Wayne, traitor to the League, before.

Barsad nods. "He fell through the ice too. We all do."

"Well, I already have," John says, "so."

"So," Barsad echoes, impacable. "You have extra motivation not to do so again."

"You're a dick," John says, but he holds his hand out for one of the poles Barsad is carrying. Bruce did this. He can do this, too. Now Barsad does smile, and he hands John a pole.

He leads the way onto the ice, with John edging out behind him. He goes carefully, and John is mindful to step only where Barsad steps, where he knows his weight will be supported. He backtracks, though, when Barsad's next step makes the ice creak and groan under them.

"Maybe it's not thick enough here," he says. Hopefully, he adds, "Closer to the shore, probably, is better ..."

He trails off when he realizes Barsad hasn't moved. Barsad is quite frozen, looking at the ice under his feet. As John watches, he shakes his head and scrubs at his face with his gloved hand. He pulls his scarf away from his mouth and starts panting.

 _He's afraid of the water_ , John thinks, heart sinking.

"Let's go," he says, but Barsad doesn't seem to hear him. "Barsad!"

He grabs at Barsad's arm. That does the trick: Barsad whirls around, glaring at him. John takes a precautionary step back.

"I'm not doing this," he says flatly. "It's stupid."

"It's part of your training," Barsad snaps, but he looks uncharacteristically rattled. John doesn't like it.

"I already did this part. And I didn't like it then, either." He turns around and picks his way back over the ice, taking the same path. "You stay out here if you want."

It's such an obvious cover, he wonders momentarily what Barsad will do. Is he stubborn enough to pretend that he's not afraid, that John didn't just see a crack in his stony facade? He glances back and sees that Barsad is wavering. Then he falls into step behind John, moving less confidently than before.

When they're back on solid rocky ground, he grabs John by the shoulder and gives him a rough little shake. "Another man would punish you for your disobedience."

"Good thing you're my _nenja_ and you like me." John knows he's pushing his luck with that—Barsad is so unpredictable lately—but Barsad just grunts and lets him go.

"Bane has spoiled you," he grumbles, turning back in the direction of the temple. John follows him gratefully.

"Yeah, I know." They're quiet for a bit, concentrating on the rocky path. Then John asks, "Did you know Bruce Wayne when he was here?"

Barsad shakes his head. "No. I had already left the temple with Bane. But there are brothers here who remember his training."

"Bane said he tried to burn the temple down."

"Your hero had an unusual sense of right and wrong." Barsad glances back at him. "His memory is not very popular here."

John huffs out a laugh. "I bet." Had Bruce been very popular anywhere? He stills remembers the newspaper headlines about Bruce Wayne's various misdeeds. John had never believed much in the person those stories made Bruce out to be. Millionaire playboy, perhaps, but he had still made the time to visit a boys' home in the inner city, just to tell a group of orphans it would get better.

He wishes Bruce were still alive, so he could ask him if he's doing the right thing. If Bruce really did want him to become Batman, John doesn't see a whole lot of alternative. He needs to get strong and learn to fight, really fight, fast. He's already a lot better than he used to be. He spars with some of the other young guys at the temple and can't believe how slow and clumsy they seem. Barsad is not a very patient teacher, these days, but his lessons stick. There's no one John would rather teach him than Barsad and Bane. Bruce might disapprove.

 _But you left me_ , he thinks at Bruce with a pang of anger he knows is undeserved. _So I need them._

To John's surprise, Barsad leads him all the way back to the temple. Maybe they'll spar in the courtyard—Barsad seems to like making him work outdoors, in the bitter cold. But as soon as they're inside Barsad starts removing his scarf, pulling it loose from his coat.

"Go and meditate," he says.

"We can still spar," John says, surprised. "It was just the frozen lake part I didn't like."

But Barsad shakes his head. "Go meditate," he says. "I'll see you later."

And he turns away and leaves John there. John understands, from this exchange, that Barsad intends to go and meditate himself, probably out in the cold, the Barsad way. He feels another irrational flicker of anger, and it's not because he's being brushed off. _You need help, asshole!_

When Barsad's gone, he starts heading toward the courtyard. He can find someone else to spar with.

 

*  
He doesn't bother telling Bane about this at the end of the day, when he's getting his ritual massage. He knows Bane won't be concerned. So he omits that part, and tells Bane about the rest of his day: some jiu jitsu practice, and weapons training after that. Usually Bane wants details and asks questions, listens thoughtfully, offers his opinion. Tonight it's just the massage: John talks, but Bane offers very little in response. John trails off, lets the silence hang there for a minute, and Bane hesitates. 

“Everything okay?” John asks, after a pause.

“Yes,” Bane says, but he doesn't move to continue the massage. Finally, he says, “John, do you trust me?”

John snorts. “What kind of question is that?” he says, but when Bane doesn't reply, John realizes he was asking in earnest. “Yeah, I trust you,” he says, more gently. But he can't help adding, “It'd be pretty weird if I didn't, at this point.”

There's a low sound of amusement from the mask, a broken chuckle. “Yes,” Bane agrees. “Would you let me take you?”

Now John is interested. Bane hasn't asked since before he went away, since John started bugging him about the mask. He's mostly kept himself too busy to miss that kind of attention, but now that it's on the table, he can't help but be interested.

“Yeah, do it,” he says, gauging swiftly: he's not so sore, not too tired. He's been neglected in this regard, and already his cock is filling just at the thought of being touched. But Bane doesn't touch him yet. He turns John over and studies his face.

“I wish to experiment,” he says, in his oddly formal way.

“Uh. Okay.” John cracks a grin, but he can tell it's not returned. “Experiment how?”

Bane answers this by climbing off the bed, and returning a moment later with a red scarf. John starts to sit up, but Bane presses him patiently down onto his back and takes his wrist. This he raises past John's head, to the headboard, and—John knows where this is going—binds it there with the scarf. John lies still, even when Bane does the same with his other wrist. He tests the bonds a little when Bane leans back: not so tight they constrict his wrists at all, but not much give there either.

Bane sits back, looks carefully into his eyes again, determining John's level of comfort. Knowing this, John swipes his tongue over his lips quickly and pulls on another cocky grin.

“Am I gonna need a safeword?”

“You need only tell me to stop, John,” Bane says calmly, and John tries not to hear it in Bane's _killer terrorist warlord_ voice but in his _trusted mentor-lover_ voice instead. His dick has a harder time making the distinction, though; it's not so excited anymore. John hasn't forgotten the fear he used to have of Bane, all those months ago. His hands had been tied together back then, too.

“Are you uncomfortable?” Bane asks, seeing something of John's internal conflict in his face. John shakes his head firmly, because he's never been one to back down from a challenge.

“No. Let's do this.”

Satisfied, Bane withdraws again. John tracks him with his gaze, and tries not to look surprised when Bane returns with—another scarf.

“Be calm,” Bane says, bringing the red fabric up to John's eyes. “I will not do anything that you don't want.”

“Kinky,” is all John says, to cover up his apprehension. Bane just grunts, and wraps the scarf around his head, effectively blinding him. He ties it securely, and when John moves his head from side to side, it doesn't budge.

Abruptly, he is calm again. There's a sense of peace in being unable to see but knowing that Bane is there, sitting next to him, hearing the breaths rasp softly in and out of his mask. Bane puts a hand on his thigh, and John's dick twitches in his pants. He tilts his head in Bane's direction, and Bane pets him a little, reassuringly. John doesn't need the reassurance: he's good.

He lifts his hips off the bed to help Bane get his pants off, and when he hears the snap of the cap of lube, he parts his legs to give Bane access. He tugs at his bonds just slightly, without thinking; he's used to helping Bane prep him. Bane notices, waits until John says “Keep going” before he does so. John's hands clench into fists at the stretch of two fingers.

“Sore?”

“Just a little. It's been awhile,” John says, and Bane switches to one finger, stroking John's hole gently to make him squirm before pushing it in. Bane knows him now, knows him better than any girlfriend John's ever had, and that's a stranger thought than it should be, considering John's never had a girlfriend for as long as he's been with Bane. Bane has made a study of him, knows every inch of him now, and knows when John is ready for more than one finger; this time, two fingers makes John arch his back with need.

“Come on,” he says, a low gasp; but Bane is more patient, and takes care to slick him liberally.

“You're ready?” he asks, finally.

“ _Yes_ ,” John says, aching to be filled. It's maddening to hear Bane withdraw, and then the familiar sound of buckles and straps being unclasped. _Why do you wear so many layers?_

Finally Bane is close to him again, close enough John can feel the heat from his body. The mattress dips when Bane gets on the bed with him. He thumbs John's cheek gently, and John can feel hard not-flesh: his wrist brace. Bane's hand goes away, and there's another long pause, another buckle being undone, but slower now. Not the brace.

“Bane?” John says, unsure. “You don't have to.”

“I want to,” Bane says, in a low growl, like he's offended that John thought he wouldn't do this for him. Like he never implied that removing his mask was non-negotiable.

“I don't want you to be in pain.”

Bane is still working at the clasps; John hears him pause for a moment. “I am not concerned,” he says softly.

There's a soft impact when the mask hits the mattress. John tries very hard to stay still, even though he's burning up with the desire to touch and see and feel, and he knows now why Bane felt the need to bind his hands: because it would be too much to resist grabbing at the blindfold, or to touch his face. John has touched him once before, in the dark, and it wasn't enough. He's irked a little, suddenly, that he's supposed to trust Bane enough to tie him up like this, and Bane doesn't trust him enough to _not_ tie him. But he knows it's not on the table. He's going to have to content himself with this. It's enough right now, he decides.

Another pause. The slick sound of Bane preparing his cock. John wonders if he's waiting for the effects of the anesthetic to trickle away enough that he can feel John properly. How long does that take? It must leave his system fast, or he wouldn't have to inhale it constantly. John wriggles impatiently, and feels Bane's warm hand pressed to his chest.

“Yes?” he says, as if there were doubts. His hoarse human voice is somehow, as always, a surprise.

“Yes,” John answers, and again: “Let's do this.”

In a moment he feels the answering press of the head of Bane's cock against his hole, and braces himself. Then Bane is pushing in, and John is just opening up around him, moaning. The loss of vision seems to bring every other sense into sharper focus, so that he swears he can feel every bump and ridge on Bane's cock as it slides home. Bane makes a sound too, a gutteral sound of satisfaction, when he's all the way in and John is impaled completely. There's nothing John can do about it—can't move, couldn't push Bane away if he wanted to. Trust as well as the bindings hold him in place; those, and the feeling of strange fulfillment from having Bane inside him again.

“Oh, John,” Bane murmurs, and then a string of words in another language, running his hands up and down John's sides until his skin prickles with goosebumps. He's not moving, and the unyielding girth of him is making John gasp. Bane stops. “Is this alright?”

It's so weird that John can only laugh breathlessly. He's tied to a bed and blindfolded and this internationally-wanted terrorist is balls-deep inside him and yeah, it's _alright_.

“It's fine. Move, though.”

Obediently, Bane drags back out. There's still friction, even with all the lube he'd applied. John always likes this part. He squirms, and feels Bane on top of him tense, feels his rumbling groan.

“Feeling good?” John asks.

“Yes,” Bane says after a pause, unsteadily. “John. You feel—so.”

“You too,” John says. He's aching with need. “Keep moving.”

Bane obeys, going much slower than usual. John thinks that Bane ordinarily likes his sex rough because he feels it more—without the mask on, Bane fucks him gently, slowly. Savouring the drink after the drought, John thinks nonsensically. He can't see anything except the spangled lights that burst behind his eyelids whenever Bane bottoms out. He wants to touch—he wants so badly—but all he can do is wrap his thighs around Bane and try to drag him deeper.

Bane grunts at this, shifts, and John feels Bane's rough hand on his chest, framing his clavicle with thumb and index finger. A couple inches north and he'd be covering John's throat. John wonders if that's what he wants, and tips his head back almost without thinking, forcing himself to breathe steadily. But Bane just presses him down, flattening his upper body effortlessly into the mattress. John squirms, just to see if he can get any leverage at all, but he may as well have a lead weight on his chest, trapping him. Bane moves over, shifts his weight and uses his other hand to hike John's leg further up around his waist. Now he's fucking into John downhill, pistoning his hips harder, and Jesus Christ, what an angle. The coloured spangling lights are fucking fireworks.

"Oh my God," he hears himself moan. Usually with Bane there's more give-and-take, more rolling around, but this time he's tied up and entirely at Bane's mercy. He feels himself shiver at that thought, and it's not a scared or trepidatious shiver. It comes from the terrifying feeling of being able, for the first time in his memory, to give himself entirely over to someone else. To be the one taken care of, for once. He's quite literally laid himself in Bane's hands, to do whatever he will with John. The amount of trust he's placed in Bane suddenly staggers him.

"John?" Bane asks above him, and John thinks he's been quiet for awhile, just panting.

"Keep going," he says raggedly. "Just like that. God."

Bane growls. He lets go of John's leg—John tightens his thighs at once—and brings his hand up to sweep strands of damp hair off of John's forehead. Then, without breaking stride, he leans down and John feels Bane's face pressed lightly to his through the blindfold, his harsh breaths light against John's mouth.

 _He wants to kiss me_ , John thinks, and turns his head, bumping his nose against Bane's face. But Bane withdraws abruptly. A moment later his hand is around John's cock, and John melts completely, nearly letting his legs slip free from around Bane's hips, all thoughts momentarily driven out of his brain. _Not fair._

He can't last—not with Bane now pounding him so exquisitely and stroking him off in time with his thrusts. John makes a valid effort to writhe—he needs to squirm, to push himself against Bane—to feel, again, that he's pinned down completely, no matter what he does. He screws his eyes shut behind the blindfold and comes, almost with a sob.

And he knows, _knows_ , right away, that Bane is right on his heels. As soon as John starts tightening around him, he fucks in hard once or twice and snarls, a sound that takes John back to Gotham and the occupation. Bane's climax is a hot flood inside him, he can feel every twitch and pulse—and it's a lot, trickling out even while Bane is still thrusting shallowly, letting John's body milk him dry. It's awhile, too, before Bane finally stops twitching and is still inside John, gasping for breath. He withdraws slowly, with a wheeze.

John hears him collect the mask from very far away, over the blood still fizzling in his ears. A moment later Bane's fingers are fumbling with the scarf tying him to the headboard, and in a few seconds John is free. He wants to lie still a little while longer, give his wrung-out body a rest, but automatically his hands come up to the blindfold to pull it off. Bane is sitting beside him, just holding the mask to his face, breathing in the gas anesthetic harshly.

John sits up, wincing at the sensation of come trickling down his thigh. "Let me," he says, and though Bane narrows his eyes, and does not take his hand away from the grille, he allows John to fumble with the straps around his head and tighten them in place.

When the mask is on, and Bane's breathing has a slightly less frantic edge to it, John flops back down onto the mattress, a little to the side of the wet spot. Bane arranges himself more carefully, and gathers John to him. John goes, bonelessly.

"You came," he says, muffled against Bane's chest. "It worked."

"It did. Clever Robin."

He's humouring John, and John thinks about how long Bane resisted doing this. He pushes, and Bane lets him move away so they can look each other in the face.

"Was it okay?" John asks. "Were you in pain?"

Bane sighs mechanically. "Yes," he says, carefully. John waits, and after a moment Bane pulls him back in. "It was worth every second."


End file.
